Fred Waiss

Fred Waiss is a former high school teacher and coach who writes poetry, articles, short stories, novellas, and novels as the muse attacks; as an author he considers himself a work in progress.

STORIES

The Fire(June 2, 2017)“Your fire is dying.”“The fire and I have much in common. You will not need your weapon. As you can see, it has already done its work.”He did not even consider holstering his weapon. Who knew what creatures might be sulking among the trees? “You should not have built the fire. I’d have never found you without it.”"I needed you to find me. You have a medkit. I will die if you do not use it to repair my wound.""I had hoped to kill you with that shot, not just wound you. Why would I save you now? Use your magic to save you.""My magic, as you call it, cannot do that. It is a passive thing, and no threat to you or anyone.""Magic goes against the will of God! It is a violation of the laws of His nature!""Then why has He given it to us? It is a natural feature of our world.""Then you all should have stayed there, Blake.""Why should we not have the same freedom of the galaxy? Why can't you have just left us alone?" The shouted response ended in a paroxysm of coughing while hands already wetly red pressed against the lower abdomen in an attempt to staunchthe blood that spread from a gaping hole in the material and the flesh beneath it. Blake sat on the ground, back slumped against one of the massive trees that surrounded the tiny clearing."Because you are all an abomination!""Well, Warden, now you are trapped here, with this so-called abomination, in Everdark.""Everdark! That is a myth!""Obviously not, since we are here. Sunlight has not touched ground level in this forest for thousands of years. I chose this place for our final meeting, but I underestimated your marksmanship. So it is the magic now that will keep us both alive or allow us both to die. Which it will do is up to you. Heal my wound and we can both live. It is your choice.""That is an easy choice. I will live; you will die.""That is not an option. But you must ch-choose quickly. I am bleeding to death. I have gone into shock and it will soon be too late. If it becomes too late for me, it will be too late for you.""If you want my help you will explain how your magic will either save us or kill us.""I will show you. Feed the fire. Build it up high...that's right, fuel it and stoke it as best you can.""It's not growing...it just ignores the wood and continues to die.""That is because I continue to die. That is the magic. We are connected. I started the fire so it is dependent on me for its life. If I die, it dies. And if it dies, you will die shortly thereafter.""I have my weapon, and my torch, and the battery is fresh.""That won't help you. It is only the fire that keeps them at bay.""Them who?""The eaters. Listen! You can hear their breathing. They are all around us."He strained to hear, and did."Okay, so they're out there. Like most animals, they will stay away from the light.""Shine your torch into the dark around us...see them?""Yes. They are there. They look like giant muskrats.""Did their eyes reflect the light?""Huh! No, they didn't.""They have none to reflect. They evolved here, in Everdark. They func...function by hearing and smell and touch. They know fire and fear it, like wild animals everywhere, but they know it by the sound and the smell and the heat. Your torch has none of those things. When the fire goes out they will come in to our little circle here and have their meal.""If I heal you, it will only be to kill you later. But for my own sake, I will save your life...for now." Warden finally took the medkit from his belt and knelt by Blake. He opened the kit, but then hesitated."I find the very thought of touching you to be repugnant, and the idea of saving your life even more so.""I had hoped you would sh-show...show mercy...for the sake of mercy.""Because you are a female? Did you think that would make a difference?""No. I hoped you would treat me...because...both civilized intelligent beings...separated by misunderstanding.""There is no misunderstanding. Magic is unnatural and cursed and we will not rest until the universe is cleansed of it, and you.""Never mind then. It is...is now too late. You waited too long. They smell the blood. They will not wait long.""No! Not too late!" Warden was suddenly full of careful motion. He expertly pressed the internal bandage into the wound, and then the external bandage over it.Blake's breathing was barely perceptible."Here, stay awake now! I have staunched the flow of blood. I have closed the wound."He shook her, gently at first, then with more urgency."Wake up and renew the fire! Wake, wake! The fire is down to a last flame! Please, please rekindle the fire."He drew his weapon and fired into the trees, hoping to frighten the animals away. There was a bestial cry of pain. He directed his torch there, to see an eater on its side. But the others kept their attention on the two in the small clearing. He could see their eyeless faces, their small alert ears, their flared nostrils. And their teeth.He shook her again. "I am sorry I did not...please, awake and help me!"Blake's heart pumped one final time.The last finger of flame trembled and died. Warden directed his torch into the forest and fired his weapon at the animals until it was empty.He could not kill them all.

copyright 2017

Extra-terrestrial Sex (February 24, 2017)

Warning: this story is mildly naughty. As her phone lit up, she breathed a sigh of relief that it would be the last call of the week. It was Friday and she wanted to get home. "Hello, thank you for calling the Extra-terrestrial Sex Information Line. My name is Karen. How can I help you?" "Karen, my name is Molly, and I…I had sex with an alien last night." "Molly, we’re trying to discourage the use of the word ‘alien’ regarding our visitors from other planets. ‘Alien’ can refer to a human from another country and often has a negative connotation. We prefer to use the terms ‘extra-terrestrial’ or just ‘e.t.’" "Oh, of course. I guess I knew that. I had sex with an e.t. last night." "Can you tell me which species, Molly?" "Um, it was one of the tall red ones with the big…uh…" "Ah yes, a Colosapike. They are impressive, aren’t they? So, Molly, what questions can I answer for you?" "Well, I wondered if it was…you know…safe." "Absolutely safe. Our DNA is not compatible with theirs, so there is no chance of pregnancy or an STD." "That’s certainly a relief! It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, and, Karen, it was wonderful! I experienced at least three orgasms in ten minutes!" "I’m not surprised. I’ve enjoyed the same experience myself." "You have?" "It’s part of our training. And isn't it thrilling that their tastes in sexual desirability is so different from human men?" "Yes! I've never been propositioned like that before. I'm five-three and weigh over two hundred pounds." "I understand. My weight is all right, but my complexion never recovered from my teenage acne. But e.t.s seem to find it attractive. It may be the best part of our contacts with non-humans." "There was one bad thing though. After we finished, I asked him if he'd liked it. He said sure, but he had to hurry home. Not so much as a thank you or even a hint of a see-you-later." "I'm not surprised. Molly, becoming possessive in a relationship with a Colosapike is not recommended. They are ridiculously promiscuous and do not equate sex with affection like we do. They enjoy it immensely, but there's no emotional investment." "Oh, that explains it, I guess. But I became very upset and cried and screamed at him and called him some pretty nasty names. It didn't seem to matter to him at all." "Molly, when you screamed at him, I’ll bet he cocked his head to the side and looked like he couldn’t understand you. Which made you even madder." "Why yes! Did you experience the same thing?" "Not exactly. But they all react like that to anger. Colosapikes need steady volume and mild vibrations in our voices to translate the words. They understand all the milder emotions. But real anger causes our voices to change so much that they can’t understand our words or meanings and crying makes it worse. It’s just noise to them, so they shrug and walk away. "If you’re ever angry with one of them, you must control your voice and speak nicely even while you’re saying the words that convey your anger. Which is a difficult thing for humans to do." "Karen, it was infuriating, but the sex was so fantastic I wondered if I could invite one to live with me. Then he wouldn’t need to leave. Is that permitted?" "Molly, there are no regulations prohibiting co-habitation with an e.t. But unofficially we advise against it. Their conduct codes and personal habits are so unlike ours that arrangements like that are usually regretted. Weevlies, for example, are clean, polite, very satisfying, but also clingy, insecure, and almost impossible to get rid of. "Colosapikes enjoy human females so much that you can’t trust them to reserve their attributes only for their roommates. "However, some are more trustworthy than others. Did you get the human designation for your friend?" "Yes. His name is Foster." "Foster. Hmmm…Our reports on him are pretty much like all the others. No complaints about his behavior except what you’ve told me, which is normal for them. "Molly, again, there’s no regulation against it and they can provide a tremendous amount of pleasure. But I must remind you that these are visitors, here on temporary visas. Any one of them might be required to return to his home planet at a moment’s notice. Making an emotional investment in a relationship with an e.t. is a bad idea. But if you can enjoy the sex and the odd companionship without emotion or possessiveness, it can be quite satisfying." "Karen, you’ve been even more helpful than I expected. Thank you very much." "You’re very welcome, Molly, and please call again with any more questions about this encounter, or any others. Our computerized answering program can connect with me directly. Have a great evening and the best of luck with any future adventures." Karen disconnected and removed the ear microphone. On the subway ride home a Weevly and a Colosapike propositioned her; the latter seemed stunned that she declined his offer. She thought to herself that these beings were becoming far too sure of themselves. At her apartment, she opened the front door, slipped inside, and locked it behind her. When she turned around, there he was. Clearly he'd been anticipating her arrival. She almost changed her mind. Such a welcome was hard—er—difficult to resist. But she took a deep breath, forced her gaze upward, and looked him in the eyes. She concentrated on keeping her voice steady and the tones sweet as she looked up at him. "So, Foster Darling," she cooed, "You faithless, lying, cheating alien bastard, tell me again why you were late last night."

copyright 2017

Treasures of the Mountain King (December 2, 2016) Barrett had addressed her as "Miss Andrews." She had asked him cheerfully to call her Janis. She escorted him to the gigantic double doors. On the wall beside the doors, platinum with ebony lettering, shone the legendary plate: T. J. Griffin, President and CEO. Every new employee marked his six-month time of service with The Interview, but he was a little surprised that this was happening now. However, his uncle insisted that personal concerns not impede professional ones. That this interview would be entirely professional he had no doubt. "Now, when you go in, feel free to move around and look. But no touching." The last was said with teasing good humor. She turned the platinum knob and opened the door just enough to allow him to slip in sideways. He thanked her, and she rewarded him with the most stunning smile he'd ever seen. He stepped through and the door closed softly behind him. Opulent. It was a word he'd read, but never experienced. The word had always inspired him to imagine pillars inlaid with pearls and jewels, luxury dripping from walls and ceiling like mineral water in a deep mountain cave. He now had a real reference for the word. The white maple walls matched and yet contrasted perfectly with the mahogany doors, the high ivory ceiling, and the carpeting. Right or left? Being right-handed, he turned that way and wandered along the wall, keeping his hands clasped behind his back to defeat their unconscious urgings for contact as his eyes caressed the marvels of this great place. There was gold here, and silver, in rare coins and ornate keepsakes, many of them sparkling with gems and rare stones in a display of luxury and wealth and success he could barely comprehend, and never aspire to possess. It seemed appropriate that this incredible room be safeguarded by the woman who admitted him. Though slim, her professional-looking pantsuit hinted at a figure that might flatter a bikini. He'd noticed her summer sky eyes, the straight but delicate nose with the sparse spray of light freckles across the bridge, and the pale pink lipstick on those perfect lips. Her shoulder-length hair was the color of beach sand and the texture of silk. Her smile revealed the whitest and most perfect teeth he had ever seen. She was younger than he'd expected; she looked to be near to his own age. How could a man concentrate on this most important of interviews with a woman like that just beyond the door? He never made it to the other wall. T. J. Griffin himself entered from a nondescript side door near the window and strode to the chair behind the desk. Barrett hurried to position himself in front of the desk, a respectful two paces from the front edge. He unclasped his hands and allowed them to fall to his sides, finger tips brushing the outside of his gray dress slacks. The CEO was a man about fifty, and very near to Barrett in height, though heavier by twenty pounds. His hair was full but short and still a dark brown with no gray. He was dressed much like Barrett himself: open-collared light blue shirt, dress slacks, a loosened orange-and-blue tie. A suit coat hung on a narrow coat rack near the door the older man had just come through. Griffin sat down in the chair. In front of him, almost as an altar, stood the massive and ornate desk of black walnut. Pikes Peak, dominating the window view, framed the man perfectly, its mountain majesty seeming to be another wonderful part of this incredible chamber. This office held the highest point in what had been the tallest building in Colorado Springs. Two or three buildings were taller now, but Griffin made sure, with money and influence, that no building intruded even a spire into the vista outside that window. "Hello, Barrett." "Good afternoon, Sir." "'Sir.' Good. Discrete and appropriate. How do like the Art Department?" "I like it very much. It seems the work agrees with me, and I agree with the work." "Yes. We've already used two of your background designs for the Foster ad campaign. Seldom does a new associate manage that much of an impact in the first six months. You've done well. That will be reflected in your salary from here on." "Thank you, Sir." Barrett stifled the sudden impulse to grin and fist-pump the air. "Come around here. Bring a chair." Barrett approached the desk and picked up one of the surprisingly light visitors' chairs and walked around the right side, noticing the desktop. It held three things: Three polished wooden trays on the right that held a few papers, a normal office speaker phone on the left, and a large framed photograph in the middle that showed Mr. and Mrs. Griffin. The man looked no younger than he did now. The woman was pretty and looked about the same age as her husband. It might be a recent photo—but not too recent. The woman looked healthy and happy. "Sit down." Griffin reached into a satchel beside his chair and pulled out a portfolio. He had every scrap of Barrett's work from the last six months. "Barrett, you have talent, but you're too fond of brick-a-brack." "Sir?" The CEO pointed to a detail on one of Barrett's drawings. "See here? Your background is clean, utilitarian, yet pleasing to the eye. Good work. But then your foreground is cluttered with unnecessary accessories. Brick-a-brack." As Griffin spoke he indicated the examples on the page. He pulled out two more examples from the portfolio and demanded that Barrett point out the "brick-a-brack" that cluttered the drawings. After that, Griffin continued the interview with demands that Barrett justify his techniques, his mediums, even his choices of colors and shading; Griffin frequently supplied constructive critiques and corrections. Half an hour later Barrett found himself almost exhausted, every bit of his professional knowledge and talent taxed to the maximum. "Not bad, Barrett. You have the talent, you just need the experience. Now, I believe we both have a job to get back to. Keep up the good work." "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir." As Barrett returned the chair to its exact previous location, Griffin spoke. "Oh, two more things, but on a personal note. Barry…" Surprise, hesitation, then relaxed acceptance. "Yes, Uncle James?" "Did you chat with Janis?" "Uh, no, Sir. I was too nervous." "You should. You have similar interests. Maybe even ask her out." "Uncle James, she's way out of my league." "That's what I said to myself the first time I saw your aunt. Don't sell yourself short." "This isn't a good time." Griffin looked at him sternly. "Barry, no time could be better. Trust me. She knows of your aunt's condition, of course. But she does not know that you're a relative. I suggest you wait until at least your third date to mention it. If you never get to a third date, she doesn't need to know. "Sandy really likes Janis—thinks the world of her. It would please her immensely if you two were dating. "The second thing: I had to be on the coast yesterday, on the last business trip I'll be making for a long time. Got in very late and did not wake your aunt then or this morning. She needs all the sleep she can get. I know she and your mother went to the oncologist yesterday. Anything new?" Barry shook his head a fraction. "No. Three months or less. Nothing to be done. Mom said that, if anything, they're getting worse at a faster rate." He'd come to terms with it, but saying it aloud still gave him that catch in the throat. "I'm sorry, Uncle James." His uncle gave a ragged sigh. "Barry, I know they're identical twins, but still! How could they both come down with pancreatic cancer at the same time?" He took a deep breath; let it out slowly but not smoothly. His fingers went to his eyes. "Is there anything she needs?" "No, Sir. Except the same miracle you and Aunt Sandy hope for. But thank you." "Well, then. I guess we better get back to work. If you ever need time off, don't hesitate to ask. I'll clear it with your manager." Griffin turned his attention to the papers in his trays. Without looking up, he finished with, "Ask Janis to come in here on your way out. Don't be too quick about it." "Okay. Yes, Sir." Barrett paused for a few seconds to take a last look at the magnificent view in the window. The hard ache in his throat had returned. The pain nearly made his eyes water. He pushed one of the huge doors open just enough to allow him to side-step through from the cut pile ginger to the rose vale. "Did the interview go well?" The question surprised him. He strove to push down the grief. "Uh, yes. Really hard, but good, too. Outstanding, in fact." "Good. I thought it would be. Mr. Griffin has been very pleased with your work. I'm glad to finally meet you." Barry swallowed and glanced at the closed door. He thought that, well, he'd been turned down before and it hadn't killed him. "I'm glad to meet you, Janis. In fact, I'm so glad that I'd like to meet you again. Maybe for coffee after work some day? Or even dinner?" He was rewarded once more with that archetypal smile. "I'd like that. Tomorrow?" She made it easy, though not until their fourth "real" date. They'd shared after-work coffee almost a dozen times as well. After an early movie they were sitting in a Dairy Queen sharing a sundae. Shyly, quietly, Janis asked him, "Barry, if I tell you something, can you keep it secret? Mr. Griffin doesn't want everybody knowing yet." "Absolutely. After all, I haven't told anybody about your—" She swatted him playfully on the hand, not quite laughing. "Shush! Not in public!" Her expression turned serious. "Barry, I really like Mrs. Griffin. She's a great person! She's been to the office many times. She's been almost like a mother to me. But now she's really sick." Her voice cracked as she continued and her eyes were suddenly moist. "She's dying." "I know. Pancreatic cancer." He reached across the small table and took both her hands in his. "Janis, Mrs. Griffin has an identical twin sister, and her sister is in the exact same shape. They've only got about two months, maybe less." She looked confused, surprised, and wary. "How do you know that? Mr. Griffin hasn't even told me that much, and he isn't telling anybody about his wife." This time it was Barry's voice that became unsteady. "I've called Mrs. Griffin 'Aunt Sandy' my whole life. Her twin sister is my mother." Her eyes got bigger and, after a few seconds, leaked tears. "Oh my God, Barry! I am so sorry! I'm nearly heart-broken for Mr. and Mrs. Griffin—and myself—but it must be so much worse for you!" "I don't think there is any 'worse' or 'worst,' Love. There's just really, really bad for everybody. Uncle James and my father spend a lot of time together, helping each other through it. "And you sure are helping me. I didn't know you were that close to Aunt Sandy. I hope I'm helping you, at least a little." She squeezed his fingers with gentle urgency. "You are, and more than a little. "Barry, did you notice what you called me? You called me 'Love.'" "I know. It seemed right. I'm sorry if it's too soon." She shook her head a little and smiled with reassuring joy. "It's not."

Seven weeks later T.J. Griffin and his sons were pallbearers for his sister-in-law. The next week Barry, along with his father and friends, performed that duty for his aunt. The following Friday, shortly before lunch, Barry was summoned without warning to Mr. Griffin's office. When he entered the anteroom, Janis's face lit up with an excited happiness that stunned him every time he saw it. He wondered if his own version of that same expression pleased her as much. She moved quickly to the door. "Go right on in." She opened the door and gave his arm a quick caress as he passed. He felt again awed wonder, seeing the small diamond on her ring finger. He entered, taking in again, for only the second time, the treasures on the walls and the stunning view of the window. He hoped sometime for the opportunity to examine the left side of the room. As the door closed behind him, Griffin spoke. "Janis! You too. And you don't need your notebook." Barry wondered if they were in trouble. While it was no secret that the two were engaged, they seldom saw each other during working hours, and tried to be always appropriately discreet. Janis entered with unaccustomed hesitation, looking first at Barry and then at Griffin. But the CEO's demeanor disarmed them. He relaxed in his chair, leaning back, away from the desk, and he wore an expression of paternal regard. He gestured at the two chairs in front of his desk. The two approached and sat down, trying to disguise the apprehension they felt. "You can relax. I'm ignoring one of my own rules. This visit has nothing to do with your work. "When you two came to our home and announced that you were going to get married, you made my wife very happy. It was one of the best days she had since...since the diagnosis. And that made it one of the best days I've had. So thank you for doing that. Oh, and congratulations again." Griffin looked first to his secretary. "Janis, you're familiar with this room. What do you think of it?"She stammered. "I—I think it must be the most impressive and beautiful office in the world. Even if the room was tiny and no décor at all, the view would make it wonderful." Griffin looked to his nephew. "Sir, when I first saw this place, the word that came to me was 'opulent.' I agree with Janis. It's almost like a treasure." Griffin, still relaxed, right leg crossed over left, nodded. "Impressive and opulent are what we were going for. When Sawyer and I finally scraped together enough money to construct this building, he wanted it, and this office especially, to be all that it is. "The people we deal with—our clients—are impressed with luxury, and he insisted that we make our office, where we meet with those clients, impressive. A monument to success. I came to agree, and the results over the years have validated his opinion." He waved his arm dismissively at the room. "It is just stuff. Things. A few things are my property; most of it belongs to the company. People who come in here think that working among these treasures and with a view like that," he gestured at the window behind him, "means I'm rich. It doesn't. It just means I have access to stuff." For the first time, Barry saw his uncle release the control he held over himself. The man's eyes were bright with tears though none escaped to the skin below. "For so many years I worked and worked. Sawyer and I had decided that we would work hard enough, and long enough, and well enough that we would succeed by our own efforts and on our own terms. "He's retired now and has money to burn. And I, too, have more money than I need many times over. We did it. We made ourselves rich." He stopped talking. He shook his head. "All nonsense." He reached forward and took the picture from the middle of his desk. He turned it so they could see it though he knew they'd both seen it before. "This made me rich. I began building riches the day Sandra agreed to marry me, and the wealth we built, together, never had a thing to do with money, or with stuff." He set the picture back exactly where it had been. "I still have money. But I am no longer rich." Barry glanced sideways at Janis. He could see the same sadness he felt reflected in her eyes. Griffin was quiet for a full minute, perhaps lost in his own remembrances. Then he pulled himself out of it."But you are. I wanted to tell you that. Right this second, and for every minute and every day from here on, you two will grow ever richer. Together you will build wealth that will be the envy of all. Money, things...stuff...that's all just brick-a-brack. "Your wealth is each other. Remember that. As long as you have each other, you'll have all the treasure any person ever needs." He stood up, and they did likewise. "Now get the heck out of this building and go enjoy yourselves. Do whatever tidying up you need at your desks and don't even think about this place until Monday morning." He grinned widely at their expressions. "Janis, I'm afraid I by-passed you. I e-mailed a memo to all managers on Tuesday, with strict instructions to keep it secret. We're going to half-days on Fridays with no reduction in salaries, starting today." Though surprised, Barry realized that he'd just seen the first heart-felt grin his uncle had managed in months."We're probably the only people left in the building." When they didn't move quickly enough, he gestured impatiently. "Go! Git! I won't be far behind you." "Yes, Sir!" The two responded in unison, which made all three laugh just a little. The young couple hastened to the massive office doors and Janis hurried to her desk. Barry spared a last glance back at his uncle. The man stood looking out the window, hands clasped behind his back as he admired the treasure that nature had provided for the chamber. Barry looked at the mountain. Janis was partly right. The view made this office unique, but her presence made it wonderful. He exited and did not even glance at the brick-a-brack. His treasure waited just outside the door.

copyright 2016

Women Can't Be Mommies (July 29, 2016) The determined four-year-old was already six feet above the ground. She carefully climbed the tree in pursuit of that wonderful shiny red apple on one of the upper-most branches. “Kara! What are you doing up there? You'll get hurt!” “No I won’t Mommy! I’m careful. I’m going to get that apple!” Mommy looked up, worried but indulgent too. She calculated that the odds of Kara falling out of the tree on the way down if not on the way up were about 92%. But if she fell, her Mommy would catch her. That’s what Mommies did. Kara was certainly a determined little girl. Everything she set her mind to, she managed. This climb would tax the courage and ability of a boy twice her age; but Kara conquered the climb with careful skill. Mommy watched as Kara exercised the utmost caution in descending the tree while hanging on to the big apple with her little fingers. When her descent achieved the lowest branch her Mommy scooped her up and gave her a big hug. Kara hugged back, grinning ecstatically. “Thank you for letting me get the apple, Mommy!” “You are very welcome, Sweetie-Pie. But you got yourself pretty dirty in that tree. Let’s go in. You can eat your apple and afterward we’ll give you a bath before Daddy gets home.” Kara loved taking baths and playing with her bathtub toys. Her Mommy let her play for about fifteen minutes before coming in to get the serious business accomplished. After wash and rinse, accompanied by giggles and wiggles, Mommy dried Kara with a big fluffy towel. “Mommy, I want to be a Mommy when I grow up.” “You do? Why?” “Because I want to be like you. I want to take care of a little girl or a little boy. I want to cook for them and love them and do all the things you do for me.” “Oh, Kara, you know you can’t be a Mommy. Only andies are Mommies and Daddies.” “That’s not fair. I should be able to be a Mommy if I want to. Can’t I be an andy like you so I could be a Mommy?” “Sweetie, you can’t be an andy. You’re a girl. You’ll grow up to be a woman like your mother and you can be a mother too. But you can’t be a Mommy.” “What happened to my mother, Mommy?” “She died. All mothers die right after they have a little girl. If they have a little boy, they sometimes get to have a second baby before they die.” “Why?” “Oh, that’s a long story. Are you sure you want to hear about all that old stuff?” “Yes! I want to hear it all.” “All right. A long time ago there were so many people that they were wrecking the world. People would live a long time, and women would have three or more babies, and those babies would grow up and have more babies. There wasn’t enough food for everybody and the air and water got all nasty because too many people were using it. “The andies had a better idea. Now men and women only have one or two babies. They die right after. Now there’s a lot less people and the air and water is good again and there’s plenty of food. “The andies are always good Mommies and Daddies and make sure children grow up safe and happy. There is no more crime, no hunger, and no war. See?” Kara had listened closely and tried hard to comprehend it all as best she could, but she was only four. She did not like the answer, but she knew it would be useless to argue with Mommy or Daddy. “I guess I see.” Suddenly Kara gave her Mommy a big hug and kiss. “I love you, Mommy.” “I love you too, Sweetheart. Now let’s get you dressed all pretty for Daddy, and you can play while I fix dinner.” While Mommy fixed dinner, she accessed memories ignored for the last few years. She’d been a Mommy to Kara’s mother and Kara’s grandmother. Those little girls were smart and sweet, too, just like Kara, but never as determined. Mommy believed that no other child in the vicinity possessed the intelligence and courage and determination that Kara demonstrated on a daily basis.Mommy remembered when Kara’s mother was born. She stood next to the bed and held Annie’s hand during the birth. When the andie Doctor caught her and cleaned her off and pronounced her perfect, Mommy gave Annie the injection.Out in the waiting area, Heather’s father waited with his Daddy. When the doctor told them the baby was healthy and normal, the Daddy injected the father.She and the father's Daddy did the same thing when Heather birthed Kara. And she supposed that she would repeat the procedure again in about sixteen years with Kara.She hoped she had discouraged the child from wanting to be a Mommy. That was one goal that her determination would never achieve. That night after her Mommy and Daddy tucked her in, Kara lay in her bed and looked at the ceiling. “It’s not fair. I don’t care what other mothers do. I won’t die. I will be a Mommy. A great Mommy.” Her little hands doubled into fists with the intensity of her resolve. She promised herself that every night before she went to sleep she would say it again. She would be a Mommy.As she grew, Kara’s resolve never wavered, but she never again repeated her determination to her Mommy, although she always showed her affection to her Mommy and Daddy.Many little boys and girls were rude and mean to their Mommies and Daddies. If they didn’t outgrow those things before they were ten, their Mommy or Daddy gave them the injection. Nobody needed boys and girls with those traits. At fourteen she met Tommy and discovered a kindred soul. He wanted to be a Daddy. They talked about it a lot. He followed Kara's advice and always showed respect and affection to his Mommy and Daddy. They both studied science on the side, especially the science that was not taught in school and was hidden in the back shelves of the libraries. They became unofficial experts on how the andies worked. They took great pains to conceal that fact from their Mommies and Daddies. Kara's Mommy felt uncertain about her duties. Her child continued to be determinedly defiant in action, yet always loving and respectful in attitude. Mommy’s programming could not deal with these conflicting presentations. She and Kara’s Daddy returned the affection (an absolute in their programming) and tried to guide the child into acceptable safe behavior. At age eighteen Kara and Tommy got married. When Kara became pregnant, her Mommy and Daddy were delighted, as were Tommy’s Mommy and Daddy. Nine months later, in the hospital, when the doctor pronounced the baby healthy, Kara took the syringe she’d concealed under the sheet and gave her Mommy the injection. The andie doctor, who’s programming limited his concerns to mother and child and father, paid no attention to the Mommy’s sudden collapse. When he took the baby girl out to show the father, Tommy took his hidden syringe and gave his Daddy the injection. Four years later Kara watched the televised celebration. The world's leaders gathered together in common cause, and unanimously signed the papers. The termination of Mommy and Daddy andies became official. Her husband attended, representing them both. Several reporters surrounded him, all with the same question. “Tom, why isn’t Kara here? She is responsible for this wonderful change more than any other person. Didn’t she want to be here to share in the celebration?” Tom laughed and looked at his watch. “Believe me, she is celebrating! She is celebrating with a joy that none of you can possibly imagine!” He looked at the camera and waved. “Hi, Honey! Love you! I’ll be home tomorrow! Enjoy your celebration!” Kara grinned and whispered a “love you, too, Hon.” Then she turned off the TV and walked happily into the bathroom where her four-year-old daughter was playing with her bathtub toys.

copyright 2016

Yard Sale Treasure (May 9, 2014)

“George! Thank goodness you’re finally home! I—“ “You can say that again. Worst golf I’ve shot all year. If it wasn’t for bad luck, I’d—“ “George! Forget your stupid golf! There’s something terrible here!” She almost dragged her husband by the arm into the kitchen. A gracefully formed and polished wooden urn sat on the table. “What’s terrible? That’ll look great on the bookcase.” “George,” she said, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, “It’s a cremationurn. There’s somebody’s ashes in it!” “Why didn’t you look inside before you bought it?” “It was taped shut and I didn’t think it was important. They must have sold it by mistake. No one would sell something like that on purpose.” George lifted the lid off the urn and looked inside. Ashes, all right. Then, “Edie, did you notice there’s writing on the inside of the lid?” “What? No. What does it say?” “It’s really small, etched into the wood.” George turned the light on in the kitchen and adjusted his glasses. “’Keep these remains safe and pure, small good luck you’ll have one year. Then sell it you must to one unknown or else you’ll find good fortune flown.’ “Hmm! It seems you bought a good luck urn, Edie. Why don’t you go out and buy a couple of scratch tickets? We might as well try it out.” Edie assented. She came back looking bemused, but smiling. “So, are we rich?” “I guess that’s what it meant by small good luck. I won fifty dollars.” “How much did you pay for the urn, anyway?” “Twenty dollars. I bargained down from forty.” “Hm! Well, a good first return on the investment. I wonder if it’ll help my golf game.”

At their garage sale, Edie saw a very pregnant young woman looking at the kitchen items. She paused to touch the urn with the lid taped, then walked on. Edie hurried to her. “That is a beautiful antique urn, isn’t it?” The young woman sighed. “Yes it is, but I can’t buy it. I don’t have the money for something I really don’t need. Will you take less than twelve dollars for the dishes?” “Tell you what, dear. If you’ll buy the urn for ten, I’ll include the dishes in the price. It’s a very special urn.” The woman hesitated, then smiled sunnily and agreed. As Edie bagged the purchases she confided, “Just be sure to read the fine print on the bottom of the lid before you do anything else.” The young woman looked puzzled but promised and thanked Edie twice more before putting the bags into her tired old car. George put his arm around Edie’s shoulders. “Who was that?” “I’ve never seen her before. But she looked like she could use some luck. Now she’ll have a good year like we’ve had.” “Yep. Good health and we were able to afford that great vacation. But the thing never did help my golf game.”

copyright 2014

THANKS, WINSTONS! (November 8, 2013)

Curmudgeon. He had smiled when his son suggested it a few years ago. Still able to smile then, he showed his too white store-boughts in the last effortless grin of his life. Jerry had shown him the picture of himself, taken at a family Christmas gathering months before. He’d been sitting in an armchair, looking as if someone had told him he was contributing his Christmas bonus to the oil companies. “Dad, I want to blow this up to poster size and label it ‘Curmudgeon.’ We’ll probably make a fortune.” But those who market such things did not agree. He’d have been tickled to be an icon. Instead, he’d become the poster boy for a victim of the worst theft of all. It had stolen much of his left hand at first. But that hadn’t been a big deal. He was right-handed. Most of his life he’d made his living with the skills of his right hand, doing film animation and comic strips. Max Fleischer, Walter Lance, Walt Disney, he’d worked for the best, and know each personally. He and Annie had a wedding card signed by Walt Disney himself. So when the left hand started to get that little tremble in it, he figured it was because his control was so precise over his right that his left got ignored. Besides, he could stop the trembling with only a little effort. After the right hand followed the left, nothing else trembled. Instead it went away, burgled, stolen from him like cash scattered in the attic. A dozen different places, but the thief found them all, one by one, and took and took and took. Not long after arriving at the nursing home he’d quit talking. Squeezing out a full sentence was like squeezing the very last squib of toothpaste from a flattened tube. Even before the nursing home, he’d had to quit smoking. He enjoyed his Winstons. About two every waking hour for sixty years, and he’d enjoyed every one. Couldn’t light one anymore. Worse, couldn’t trust himself not to drop one on the rug or the chair or his pants. His nightly shot of whiskey was long gone, too. He remembered the pleasant soothing fire in his throat. He could no longer pour himself a glass, and couldn’t keep a bottle in his room anyway. A year ago he’d had to quit drawing or writing. Then he’d quit driving—couldn’t trust his legs to get to the brakes in time. Then he’d quit walking. Strength, skill, control, all burgled away. But he could still read. He pinned it down on the table with his dead stick arms and read, head bent, back stooped. “Literary fiction.” He wondered what the hell his son saw in the stuff. They weren’t even stories, despite their boasts to the contrary. They were character sketches! Or at best, situation sketches. He wondered what O. Henry or Sam Clemens would have thought of “stories” with no plot, no resolution of a problem, no climax. The thought was sufficiently curmudgeonly. He congratulated himself with wry pride. Still, he read the stuff. There was nothing else to do except stare into space, and he did have to admit the writers did have a skill with words. And sometimes a unique perception popped through, like a lone iris in a dandelion field. Jerry and Janie had visited last month. It was a three-hour drive one way, so it was no small thing. They’d stopped at the house first and brought Annie. The old man had tried to show his appreciation in his eyes. Mostly he sat in the wheelchair like a log under a bump, not paralyzed so much as forcibly relaxed while his only grandchildren brought a little boisterous sunshine into the dark interior. Sometime during the visit, Jerry had asked, “Dad, you know what day it is?” George could forgive the question. As he sat, virtually a vegetable, he understood even his family might think him senile. He had mustered every ounce of control he still possessed. With an exertion far surpassing the effort of trying to push the horse off his leg when he was twelve, he answered. “Father’s Day.” Not long before, energy like that in his voice would have rattled the windows. It came out a rusty whisper. But the success delighted—and surprised—them all. Jerry looked again like the happy kid that got the bike he wanted for his birthday. The old man felt a triumph he hadn’t known for years…even if he couldn’t show it. Didn’t matter. They all knew. His biggest sadness, outside of his own losses, was that Jerry’s children would remember their Grandpa as only a paralyzed lump. He’d been a big man. He’d boxed professionally as a heavyweight back in the twenties. Now he was a shrunken old human, brittle bones and useless muscles in a tissue-thin bag of liver-spotted skin. He’d been pretty good, too. A left jab quicker than a striking rattler, a right hand that had brought sleepy time to more than one opponent. It was back in the day when professional fighters barnstormed through the country, fighting four or five times in a week, each in a different town. He suspected more and more each day that’s where it was conceived. Then it lay dormant within him for decades before awakening and making its presence felt. One time he remembered. He was fighting, and the guy hit him one helluva shot to the temple. The next thing he knew, he was fighting a different guy in a different ring in a different town. It was the first time he was ever scared in the ring, and he’d fought like it, desperate and savage, and pummeled his opponent until they threw in the towel. When asked later, his manager told him he’d won the other fight. He’d seemed all right after, and on the drive. Maybe quieter than usual, but nothing special. That was his last fight. He’d seen too many oldsters, punch drunk and feeble in their middle age. Maybe he’d quit two fights too late. He’d told Annie months ago, when he still could, of his dilemma: “I don’t want to live any more. But I don’t want to die.” Thank God he’d signed a DNR back when he still could. He’d seen it and read about it often enough. Someone goes along for years, feeling less than good, but not so bad as to be worrisome. Then, finally they see a doctor. And the doctor pronounces the one-word death sentence: Cancer. And that’s that. Before the diagnosis, the grim reaper grows slowly, timidly, perhaps held in check by the power of the mind thinking it can restrain this troublesome intruder. Then the word is spoken, the mind understands at once it is overmatched, and as before a dry wind, the cancer wildfires through the body, organs and systems like parched kindling, leaving scorched ashes of desperate suffering in its wake before claiming the final bits of fuel. Apparently, Parkinson’s works the same way. Other than a little trembling in the hands, there was no real problem. Then the damn doctor had spoken the word aloud and the disease had become savagely greedy. Subtle little embezzlements of control had graduated quickly to burglary, and then arms robbery as his voluntary movements had been wrested from him, never to be seen again. But his heart was still strong. Twice he’d had pneumonia…easy to get when you’re a motionless lump. Twice the doctors had drugged the sickness into retreat, and his good old heart had kept on thumpin’ along, like the trusty old gas generator on the farm in Kiowa. He was glad he’d smoked. They said he had a touch of emphysema. Not enough for him to require oxygen, except during those bouts of pneumonia. But the lungs were weaker now, and the pneumonia seemed always eager to settle in, an inconsiderate saboteur taking too literally the welcome mat on the front step. That was about his only hope. At least he wasn’t scared. He’d never been scared in the ring, except the time he woke up from a false sleep. But he’d been scared that night in Blackhawk. And he’d fought like it. A policeman, he’d been, briefly. Shortly after he’d quit the ring he’d gone back to Denver, but jobs were as scarce there as anywhere. He’d answered an ad for a police position in the little mountain town. The Chief of Police (on a force of one) had remembered seeing him box once, and had seen his name in the sports pages, in the fine print where they published the boxing results and rankings, and hired him on the spot. Wasn’t much to it. Keep the drunks from busting up the bars; toss ‘em into the jail overnight if they didn’t leave quietly; and generally be a presence of law on the streets in the afternoons. He didn’t even carry a handgun, but he often had a shotgun for company at nights, more as a badge of authority than a weapon. One Saturday night, two big ol’ boys, new to town, got drunk. Some men get mellow when they drink, some get careful, and some get mean. These two got mean. He’d been summoned from the other end of town, and ran the quarter mile, the bar’s piano player trailing and breathing hard behind him. Most of the patrons had scattered. The two drunks—brothers, by the look of them—were brutalizing the bartender. One held his arms and the other was dishing out body blows and punches to the face. The man—fifty years old at least—had been beaten badly and they weren’t through. Except, they were. He’d discharged one of the shotgun barrels into the air. That got their attention and they left their victim to crumble to the floor. George found out later they’d been furious when the bartender refused to serve them more and suggested they’d had enough. They turned on him, and suddenly he felt the fear. But he never was sure what scared him more—being beaten up or having to shoot one of them. At that range, with the ten-gauge, shooting would be killing. Not what he’d signed up for. They split apart and came at him, unsteadily but with a triumphant determination. They no doubt figured he wouldn’t shoot merely for drunk and disorderly, and maybe assault. Or maybe he gave them too much credit. Maybe they were simply mean drunks that didn’t give a damn. But they left him little time to think, and none to talk. And they were big. He was six feet, two hundred pounds, and still ring-hard. But they each had him by two inches and thirty pounds, and none of it looked flabby. If they got him down, he’d be lucky to live through it. But he wasn’t about to kill someone over an assault, either. And he would not retreat. This was what he was hired for. He handed the piano player the shotgun. The brothers grinned and closed in. He charged the one to his left, startling the man and landing two hard shots to the face. He wheeled at once and started pounding his fist into the other’s ribs and belly, hitting hard and fast. He turned again, hands up in defense, in time to catch a left hook on his right forearm. He struck back, fear and desperation firing lefts and rights into the face and body, breaking the nose, smashing lips into teeth, cutting the flesh below the eyes. The man fell backward and George wheeled again, charging the other…who cowered on the floor, crying, hands open before him, beseeching for mercy. The other was unconscious, his face a tattoo of bloody wreckage. George hadn’t felt like a winner. No triumph, no victory. Not even relief. Those emotions, he remembered, did come later, along with a bit of pride, when he found out those two were wanted in three other mountain towns. For pretty much the same thing—plus emptying the bar tills—except twice they’d hospitalized the lawmen that tried to arrest them. His fear had not been misplaced. But right then, he’d felt mostly shame, He’d hurt them both, maybe pretty bad, because he was afraid. And he was ashamed of the fear, too. He quit soon after, despite the Chief’s protests and commendations. He never wanted to be that scared again. He remembered how hard he’d been breathing, how his lungs felt inadequate to their task. Like they felt now. But then, it had lasted a minute or so. Now it was never-ending. Two nights ago Annie gave him the news. Double pneumonia this time. Which he’d suspected. The shallow and rigid feeling in his chest was no stranger. There were tears in her eyes—and tears came hard and seldom to her. The doctors doubted they could do anything this time. That explained it. His thoughts more and more had been dwelling in the past. It was the review before dying. He had time, so his life hadn’t flashed before his eyes. It had been, instead, running past on quick little film clips, touching the high points. He managed to nod his head once. He couldn’t say the words—couldn’t even whisper them to her—and he wondered if she knew. He was sad for her, because she would be sad for him, and their sons, and herself. But he wouldn’t deny the words he thought when she told him. Thank goodness he’s smoked all those years. He remembered hiking at 14,000 feet. The lungs could barely get their air they needed for the exertion. And now, like then, he was sweating and chilled, both at once. He felt like a character in one of those “stories” Jerry had brought him. Soon enough he’d be getting his own pretty words—though likely not as pretty as those writers managed—said over him when he couldn’t be embarrassed by them. Then his position in the world would change while his condition would not. He wondered who would say those words. Jinx, maybe? His boyhood friend was still alive and well. They hadn’t spoken, even over the phone, for almost a year. He remembered when he’d served as Jinx’s best man…and how the favor had been returned almost ten years later. He felt like he was at 20,000 feet. He recalled when he took Annie to the hospital and turned her over to the doctors and nurses for the birth of their second child. He’d then taken the oldest to a baseball game. Jerry wasn’t two yet, and he never did remember the game, but he seemed to enjoy it at the time. He awoke from a distressful slumber. He remember when he’d proposed… Annie had been so beautiful… It was she, then… That took his breath…. away… Now…

copyright 2013, reprinted from The StoryTeller

THE SCENT OF MOONLIGHT (June 28, 2013)

She floated. The soles of her dainty feet barely bent the dew-beaded blades of lush green grass she traversed. Love could do that. Only true love could lift the weight from her and make her feel so light and free. The moonlight carried a scent of masculine cologne that enchanted her, and enhanced the perfection of this midnight rendezvous. The woods summoned her, calling with a siren song she understood. Her lover awaited her there, just past the first tree line. The diaphanous negligee barely concealed the exciting softness of her young and perfect body, the loose folds trailing behind her. She breathed in the compelling fragrance borne in the beneficent light of the full moon. Her face, lovely in the youthful curves of unlined beauty, glowed with the joyous anticipation of love's kisses soon exchanged. She hurried. She saw him. He stepped from behind a tree and held his arms out to her in silent invitation. How could any woman have resisted his genteel advances? He was tall, of course, and incredibly handsome of face and figure. Now, though, he seemed frustratingly indistinct in the shadows of the trees. She ran faster, her heart fluttering with the excitement of the moment. He stepped forward to meet her with silent hungry welcome and she surrendered herself ecstatically to his embrace. Without even a quiver of resistance she was torn to shreds and eaten.

The area was filled with sheriff’s deputies and the county’s forensic team. Yellow police tape was everywhere. Two deputies were in the cabin. "Mac, I know it ain't nice to speak ill of the dead, but that was not a good lookin' woman." The young deputy held in his latex-gloved hand a photograph of the victim receiving an award from her publisher. She'd been a writer of romance fiction. Spare she was without any noticeable curves on her middle-aged figure. Hatchet-faced and sallow of complexion, with small eyes and thin lips, she was certainly not the stuff romantic dreams were made of. Chief Deputy John McInnis looked over the rookie’s shoulder. He grunted assent. "Plain as a used broom. But better looking then than now.” The victim had eaten supper in solitude, probably taken two sleeping pills—judging from the prescription bottle—and retired. Sometime in the night she had abandoned the safety of her bed and her cabin wearing only a long flannel nightgown. Now bloodstained and shredded, it occupied an evidence bag. She had walked barefooted across the weeds and dirt and rocks and into the forest. A few animal hairs recovered at the site of the carnage were the only other evidence. McInnis felt sick. The consequences of his failures continued to increase, victim by bloodied victim.He muttered to himself, not expecting to be heard. “’Serve and protect.’ You promised. You’re worthless, your oath is shit. Here’s another one to prove it.”Steve missed the first part, but picked up the last. “Another one? There’ve been others? C'mon, Mac. What else?" "More miserable failures on my part. This…thing…has left me a useless flop since I’ve been here. Every year we’ve lost one or two. Every…damn…year. A lone hiker or camper would go missing and we’d find the shreds not too far from the last known position. Last year it was a young couple on their honeymoon. We finally had to put up signs all over forbidding hiking or camping. It wasn’t adequate, but it was the best we could do. The best I could do. How can you stop what you can’t find? “And now we've got a nationally known author as the victim. Everyone's going to want answers and quick conclusions and we're going to have neither."Mac left his partner to finish and trudged to the site of the attack. One person from the forensics lab was still there, one knee on the ground, photographing a pile of dead pine needles splashed with red. "Figured you folks would be done by now, Tom." "We are. Looks like the thing has moved here from the other end. Those animal hairs looked the same, too, but we’ll send ‘em in to the feds for analysis." "Any tracks?" "Just hers, and damn few of those. Just like the other times." “So we still don’t know anything.” Mac’s voice was haggard and bitter. Tom laid a worn rough hand on his shoulder. “Don’t take it personally, Mac. You’ve done your very best, and it’s more than most would have with the situation.” “Huh! Damn little comfort, Tom. But thanks.” Four days later in the forensics lab McInnis and Jones did and did not get the information they were waiting for. "Congratulations, gentlemen. You've discovered a new species of bear. Again." "Again?" "Yep. Discovered the same new species last year when that couple was turned into something's take-out meal. Hairs match exactly to the others and not quite exactly to anything else on record." “Thanks. C’mon, Steve, time to confess to the boss.” Sheriff Jason Griffin was in his third term. Shortly after his second election he’d called his old friend and persuaded McInnis to leave the city life as a cop and come to work for him. Griffin was certain the change of scenery would be good for him—get him away from the city and the constant reminders of his wife’s death. Mac’s skills and know-how had helped him win the third election. A homicide solved, a major robbery foiled, and several lesser criminals brought to justice due to Mac’s expertise and unflinching determination. But these attacks…they’d had no news of closure for the families of the previous victims. Griffin hated that, hated having to tell a mother, a wife, a brother, that they’d still been unable to track the monster that had taken their loved one. Mac hated it more. It ate at him. In the city, he’d closed every case. He hated failure and he had three on his personal record. Four, if they couldn’t bring it in this time. Plus, he was failing her. “Well, Mac? Any new information? Any new ideas?” “Sorry, Griff. I’m just as stumped as ever. Any kind of natural predator leaves tracks, sign, something. I can't offer anything. I called Jim Roanhorse. He says the tribal legends offer a hint, but he wouldn’t say what it was. We have just that one consistent feature. The victims always seem to go willingly to meet the…whatever, and always at night. Probably when they’re asleep." The sheriff sighed loudly. "Well, I’ve got one idea that might make use of that. If we can plant an officer in that cabin and another covering him we might be able to get this thing and kill it." "Or lose a deputy. Or two. Griff, I'm not optimistic about anything that intentionally puts someone in danger. Usually, even if you catch the critter the bait gets shredded. That's too high a price." "You got any better ideas?" Before McInnis could answer, Jones spoke up. "I think it's a great idea! I'd like to volunteer to be the bait. I'll be glad to introduce this thing to bait that bites back!" Mac muttered just loud enough to be heard. ”Fools rush in.” "Mac? Seriously, what do you think?" Sigh. "Shit. I don't like it, Griff. But, no, I haven't got anything better to suggest. If this young dummy wants to stick his head into the predator’s mouth, I'll try to keep him from getting it bitten off. You're the one that has to explain it to the press and his family if it goes bad. I'll just have to live with it." Griffin gave him a sharp look. “Mac, it’s not your fault! If there’s anyone to blame, it’s me. The buck stops on my desk, not yours. If you keep beating yourself up you’ll be no use to anyone.” Mac scowled but nodded grudgingly. “All right, Griff. Let’s just end this damn thing and neither one of us will have to worry about that buck on our desk.” That night, like most others, Mac sat alone in his apartment and dozed off. The move from the city had helped some—without the constant reminders of her death, he was able to focus on the happy memories a little more. Two police detectives married to each other didn’t happen often, and they were both in their thirties when they met on the job. They were drawn together not just by the work, but by their dedication to a common purpose. “To serve and to protect.” Especially the protect. They had lived that motto, breathed it and consumed it and reinforced the dedication in each other. So many times one had confided to the other, “I’m out of ideas. No more clues, nowhere to go. I don’t know what else to try.” And each one always had the same answer, delivered with a supportive grin: “So try harder.” Those three years of marriage had been the happiest of his life. And then she took a bullet protecting a witness He’d been relieved and grateful when Griff called on him. But he hadn’t expected to come up against something like this. He was letting her down. When was he going to show the dedication she had? When was he going to do his duty? And how? Two nights later Steve Jones was preparing to stay the night in the cabin. The other cabins, occupied two nights ago, were now vacant. McInnis was outside, twenty yards behind and to the side of the cabin, yet with the door in view. He hoped it would be far enough away from the trees to avoid whatever lure the thing used. Both men were armed with twelve-gauge pump-action shotguns. McInnis had his pistol in its holster secured to his right hip and a department portable radio at the left, microphone clipped to the shoulder of his left sleeve Backup was several minutes away, though. They didn't want a close crowd scaring off the creature--whatever it was. The yellow police tape was gone. The area looked again natural and peaceful. And menacing in the moonlight, which was now a week past full. McInnis had no intention of trusting only to that light, especially if his partner went into the line of trees. He had night vision goggles perched just above his hairline. In the dim light they looked like some bizarre and stunted antennae on the head of a giant bug. He settled in and made himself comfortable. Inside, Steve Jones laid the shotgun beside him on the bed and allowed himself to doze off. The night embraced them. The three-quarter moon sat back and watched, its luminous fragrance falling in a gentle shower over the trees; the stony weedy ground; and the cabin, wafting its way through the open window. And it fell on McInnis too. He was barely aware of the odd smell that seemed borne upon the dim yellow light. He felt a pull of curiosity, a mild urge to explore the nature of the odd scent. But his duty to his partner easily overcame the weak urge. Which was a very good thing, he thought, for he understood its origin. It was the predator. Apparently it was with some kind of pheromones that the predator enticed its victims to their destruction. He wondered how strong the influence was within the cabin. His unspoken question was soon answered. Steve Jones walked casually from the front door. He clutched his shotgun tightly. The light of the moon carried the heavy musky odor of a huge animal. Wise he'd been, to be on his guard. The thing awaited him there, among the trees. Soundlessly he moved across the grassy span between cabin and forest. He smiled, self-pleased and confident. He was, after all, not just a man but an officer of the law, and a gunman. No beast, however cunning or strong or ferocious had a chance against him and his trusty shotgun. He would kill it—blow its damned head off, really—and send it back to the hell it came from. Bear or monster, he'd see how well it liked eating buckshot. Cautiously at first, in a silent crouch, he advanced toward the tree line and the creature waiting there. But he could not contain his eagerness, and his caution evaporated into the moonlight. He hurried. McInnis was alert at once. He'd seen the door open, and he was on his feet. The night vision goggles were pulled quickly down and adjusted over his eyes. He saw Jones exit the log structure, walking mostly upright. His right hand was near his hip, fist closed. The left arm was extended about twelve inches in front of him, palm up and cupped, as though it cradled a shotgun. But his hands were empty. His feet made scuffing and crunching noises on the weeds and rocky dirt. McInnis trotted to catch up, and then walked close behind, making no attempt at quiet. His partner was unaware of his presence. As they approached the trees, the strange smell in the air became more intense. McInnis found it exciting and repulsive at the same time—like cheap whore’s perfume. He veered off a bit to the left as they entered the trees. He wanted a clear shot at the beast without his partner getting in the way. He saw it. A bear--but not like any that had lived since the great cave bears of prehistory. It shambled forward on its hind legs, its head easily twelve feet above the ground. Huge forepaws spread wide, pale yellow claws extending eight inches from the reddish brown fur. Steve Jones saw the creature rearing above him merely as a looming blackness in the gray shadows of trees. But he saw the glint of moonlight on the claws. He heard the snuffling breathing above him. He grinned, and raised his gun to blow the creature's head off. Faintly, from far away, he heard his partner's voice. "Steve! Wake the hell up!" McInnis aimed high, hoping to hit the beast high in the head and not catch the younger man with the edge of the spray of buckshot. He fired. The noise seemed to break the spell between predator and victim. The ursine giant looked over at McInnis and roared. Jones woke up. He realized at once that the gun he'd been carrying was non-existent. After the thing's initial surprise, it realized that his prey was no longer under the spell of its summons. It swung a gigantic paw of clawed death, but its victim had ducked and rolled. It altered the direction of its swing into a kind of scoop. The clawed club lifted Jones from the ground and hurled him into a tree. His back absorbed the impact and he crumpled to the forest floor. McInnis fired again, lower this time, aiming for the torso. He paused long enough to key the mic and yell for backup. He expelled a shell and fired again, and again, and kept firing, moving closer. He was shouting curses and promises of death, each curse punctuated by the blasts from the shotgun. Tears of fury and fear and grief blurred his vision, but not so much that he could miss the gigantic target. The pellets disappeared into the thick fur and seemed to do no damage. The shots to the head were equally futile. McInnis expected the creature to turn on him and kill him, but that didn't happen. It roared at him, and tried to move toward its original victim. McInnis darted to his right and imposed himself between human and monster, defying the creature's roars with wordless yelling of his own. He fully anticipated being struck down. It threatened, it roared and howled and towered above him, but it would not strike. He had not ceased his attack. When the shotgun had gone empty he had hurled it at the creature's head and drawn his handgun. He saw the thrown weapon pass right through the creature's form without contact. He saw but he did not believe. He fired his pistol, aiming again high, shooting for the eyes. Nothing. He could not have missed yet there was no effect. It was like the thing was not really there! Was it in fact an illusion? Some kind of ghost? Yet its clawed forepaw had been substantial enough to injure--perhaps kill--his partner. But apparently it was a ghost! For even as he emptied his gun at its eyes it was fading, becoming transparent. He wondered if there was something wrong with the night vision and he quickly snapped the goggles up on his forehead. The threatening gigantic darkness was indeed losing its density! The angry roars were losing volume, as if getting farther and farther away. He ejected his empty clip and slammed home another but he did not fire. It was gone. The normal night noises of the forest resumed. He looked sharply all around. Nothing else threatened. Shaking from reaction, the deputy turned his attention to the other man as he keyed the mic on his radio. "Ambulance! Hurry!" A pulse--thank God! He was alive, but unconscious and bloody. He stepped away from Jones for a minute and took a knee to examine the spot where the creature had been standing. There was sparse thick-bladed grass, yellow pine needles, and dirt. All completely undisturbed. The grass was not flattened, the pine needles not scattered or broken, the dirt still loose. No sign of tracks. No physical evidence upon the ground anywhere that a creature weighing perhaps a ton had been there. McInnis went back to his partner, protecting him from anything the forest might produce, and waited for the EMTs. The next evening before heading home, McInnis stopped at the bar where he was an occasional visitor. He found Jim Roanhorse there, apparently waiting for him. Jim had been a deputy himself for over twenty years and was one of Mac’s closest friends. McInnis ordered a beer, took a big drink, and set the mug back down on the bar with more emphasis than necessary. "Another life ruined, another failure on my ledger, and apparently nothing I--or anyone--can do to prevent it from going on forever.” “John, you saved his life.” “No, I merely kept him from getting killed. Not the same. His back was broken. He won’t walk again. His wife thanked me. I wonder if they’ll both be grateful years down the road. "I went back this morning. You know what I found?" "I know." What he and the forensics team had found was shredded leaves and pellets imbedded in the trunks and limbs and branches of several trees. And two bullets. Since he'd been firing at a very upward angle, the rest were lost somewhere in the forest. "Jim, it wasn't even there! It was enough there to cripple Steve for life. Enough there to leave hairs and even a tiny piece of claw scraping on his clothes and belt. But not enough to stop bullets or buckshot. Not enough to be killed." A swallow emptied the mug, and he signaled for another. When it was before him he clutched the handle on the mug, clinging to the tangible anchor, and spoke the other thing that had been haunting him. "Jim, why the hell didn't it attack me? I was as vulnerable as Steve. Bullets and buckshot had no effect. So why the hell am I still whole while Steve isn't? Why the goddamned hell didn't it take me?" Roanhorse took a small swallow of beer. "John, I've spent weeks off and on over the years digging up everything I could find, from old tribal legends to the internet. The legends were more help. Your experience is not unique. The creature you encountered is named in our legends. It is Ardeche. It is the Bear God. The druids of Stonehenge worshipped it and considered it a protector. But it traveled somehow to this land, and here it is no friend of men. As you realized, it summons its prey with a scent that deceives the victim and binds the two together, somehow. “It can only destroy what it enthralls with its scent, much like pulling on a chain attached to a ring in the nose of the victims, and bound to that same chain itself." “Jim, you just gave me an idea.” He paused to organize his words. “Do you think if Steve had actually had his shotgun and been able to shoot, that that connection would have enabled him to kill the beast?” “Hmm! Good question!” It was Jim’s turn to ponder in silence for a moment. “I doubt that it has ever been tried. Like Steve, the enchantment deceives the victim into believing something that is not real. “There is only one way to test that theory and you and I both know that Griffin will not authorize another attempt like what was just done.” McInnis gave a short harsh laugh. “You’re right on that score! No way would he risk another life on less than a sure thing.” Both men were silent for some minutes, taking what small comfort they could from the feel of the glass within their grips, the tongue-tanging taste of strong beer, and the closeness of a good friend. “John, I know this has troubled you since the creature first entered our territory four years ago. I know how much you need to destroy it. And I know why. “It is a god! It is thousands of years old. The best we can do is to prevent people from becoming victims. Warn them away or prohibit their presence. Eventually it will move on. It cannot be killed.” “But if it moves on for lack of food, Jim, then it becomes someone else’s problem. That is not a solution. It is a disservice to those others, and to ourselves. It protects no one.” Roanhorse and McInnis sat quietly together for more long minutes. The older man finally stood, preparing to leave. McInnis held him up. “Can’t be killed, eh?” The older man shrugged. “Gods cannot be killed.” “Mind if I keep trying?” “If the attempt fails, as it surely will, it will be you that is killed. And yes, that I would mind very much.” The older man gave a final pat of consolation on the other's shoulder, and walked away, the glass of beer only a little over half gone. The Chief Deputy took the glass and poured the contents into his own and drank deeply, emptying the mug in three large gulps. McInnis knew his duty—his duty to her, and to himself: protect and serve. And he had failed…was still failing even as he sat there. He left a twenty on the bar and walked into the night. The moon was now an edge away from half-empty. It hung yellow and cold above the horizon, offering no comfort. He wondered again if Steve would have been able to kill it if he’d actually had a weapon. Could the prey eliminate the predator? Meanwhile, it was still out there, still hungry. They had closed that cabin. McInnis wondered what it would eat now. Where would it hunt? He sat in the driver’s seat of his car and closed his eyes, allowing the beer to lull him into a brief half-sleep. Nikki sat next him, her expression asking him what was wrong. “I can’t figure it out, Nik. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but nothing works.” Her face reflected love and determination, like it always had when they talked shop. She sported that grin. He could hear her response. “So try harder.” His eyes snapped open. Yes, he would. Twenty minutes later he was at the cabin. He rechecked his sidearm—loaded and repositioned to his left side. He took the shotgun from his trunk and checked it as well, and found it ready. He grabbed the roll of duct tape—the one non-regulation item he always carried. He unlocked the newly fitted padlock and opened the door. He sat down in a chair, performed a last necessity, and waited. The beer made it easy to doze off. The scent stole into the cabin. He awoke, entranced, then stood and stepped from the cabin. His shotgun duct-taped into his right hand, finger on the trigger, he was ready to meet the one that awaited him. He saw the figure, indistinct, in the deeper darkness beneath the trees. He cupped the pump in his left hand. He took a deep breath and savored the smell of sawdust and gun oil that was carried along with the pale light. He took a deep breath and headed for the trees. He hurried.

copyright 2013

POEMS

CHALLENGER (OCTOBER 25, 2013)The seven pioneers are gone.In the early hours after dawnThey were departing their Earthly homeVast and airless space to roam--When unexpected errant forceCaused a sudden change in courseAnd thrust them through an unseen doorTo a universe they now exploreWith all the same excited cheerThey showed to us when they were here.And we, their sacrifice recallWas for the benefit of all.And let those many tears we’ve criedBe not of sorrow, but of pride!

copyright 2013

A DARK FANTASY (OCTOBER 25, 2013)When the seas retreatdrawing finally from the feetof cliffs they have always tried to reachand slide away from sandy beachleaving air to drown the creatures they have kept so long,Even then we shall meet again and walk beneath what was the rim of crashing waves and rolling sea and ocean that can no longer be.When mountains decide at last to follow their tears, the rivers, and fill each hollow of lowlands with their eroded might to leave no monument in sight of the homes they were to birds and beasts and trees,We shall tread the flattened peak and finally find the words to speak the endless songs and stories of the vanished mountain glories.When the starlight flickers out and endless darkness leaves no doubt that our sun too will fade away ending forever the light of day and making sight a useless thing now past,We shall wander upon a world old, flattened, withered, dry, and cold but cannot vanish till we meet and trace its borders with our feet.And, when it is all finally done, crumpled Earth and faded sun, then shall we know the reality of lovers’ immortality and the emptiness will await receiving of our spirits.Together, finally, we shall go unmoved by all we’ve come to know of the death of things in matter cast-- for we know that love, alone, must last.

copyright 2013

ONE NIGHT STAND (OCTOBER 25, 2013)​Can you spare a slab of corned beef?And sandwich it with rye,Some mustard and some mayo?And don’t let me hear you cry.And add a little wine‘Cause my throat is feelin’ dry.

I been flyin’ high without a plane Feelin’ ecstasy and pain And it gets twice as tough to stop With every pill I pop

Have you got a cigarette?And a place where I can crash?You won’t have to worry‘Cause I’ve used up all my stashAnd if you are not hurtin’Could you spare a little cash?

I feel my mind a-slippin’ Every time that I go trippin’ But it gets twice as tough to stop With every load I drop

I know I have not treated youAs men should treat their wives.I’ve used up all our moneyAnd wasted both our livesAnd while you suffered sleepless nightsI lay stoned in sleazy dives.

And I don’t love these things I do I’d rather spend my time with you But it gets twice as tough to stop With every load I pop

And in the morning when you wakeI’ll have left you high and dry,I’ll have taken all the moneyAnd not even said goodbye.But as for now, just fix me pleaseOne more corned beef on ryeAnd add another glass of wine--My throat’s still feelin’ dry.

copyright 2013

FINDING (AUGUST 9, 2013)Touch, feel,Probing—the realRealization of you.As though blindEach mind,Desperate to share,Leaves the darkened lonely lairOf one alone, to comeInto the sun- shine of we together.The feather- touches of your heart(As it leaves that part of you that is only solitary, cold, lonely)Reach my mindAnd, intertwinedForever in loveWe ascend above mistrust and fearTo happiness.And we together now are curled- up with our own loveIn our own world.

Eight Earth Months LaterShe coupledfirst for moneythen only for pleasurelike she’d never known.It seems their males are not so…so…giftedas human men.But they do not love.They couple freelyfor pleasurefor breedingfor credsbut never for love.She cannot love.But I can.

Two Earth Years LaterAn Earth woman might crybut she cannot.They do not loveThey do not cry

But I do

I am being replaced.Will she leave with me?We coupleWe whisper togetherafter in the bedWill she?Can she?Must I abandonazure eyescornflower lipsdenim coloredsilk textured skinfeatures so beautifullydelightfully humanthat I have come to desireto needto love?I returned to Earth alone.She did not cry.

But I did.

copyright 2013

BUG WAR (OCTOBER 5, 2012)I had moved just recently into the stateWhen the invasion occurred--I remember the date--September the tenth, nineteen eighty-eight.I had given my wife a husbandly hugWhen I happened to glance down at the rugAnd there I saw it--a boxelder bug!I thought at first that it was aloneBut then my wife gave a disconsolate groan--For there was another, on the wall by the phone.I heard my children fearfully call,So I ran from the front room and into the hall--There was another bug high on the wall!And on the chairs, and the books, and the stereo too--I started counting the bugs--now more than a few--But I gave up the project when I reached ninety-two.The bugs were obviously now on a rollAnd the situation was out of control--I even found one in a cereal bowl.Fast action was needed--I ran for the door,But outside was worse--there were bugs by the score!The garage roof was covered by a thousand or more!Bravely but quickly I proceeded outside,Rejoicing in knowing that with every strideSix or eight of the little pests died.In the garage, waiting for meThere, where it had waited patiently,Was my trusty friend--the DDT.I patted it fondly, glad I could say,"Old friend, I know when I hook up the sprayI can count on you to save the day."I walked out the door, sprayer in hand,Surveyed the insects invading my land,And knew it was time to make my stand.I was psyched--I was ready--I knew that I could.My conscience confirmed it--it said that I should.My destiny called me--and I knew that it would.I gripped my weapon, I triggered the spray.The bugs died by hundreds--there was no delay.This was glorious combat--the American way!Death rained from my weapon--boxelder bugs died.None did escape me, though some surely tried,But they had nowhere to run, and no place to hide.Then into my house I carried the fight,Slaying invaders with chemical might.My family applauded the glorious sight.Through every hallway, in every roomThe six-legged monsters encountered their doomAnd we put them all in a black trash bag tomb.But the battle wasn't over, I'm sorry to say,For the bugs had an ally--he called the next day.And I had to deal with the darned EPA.In conclusion I'll say, as brief as I can,I won my case in spite of the chemical ban​Because bug rights are nothing to the rights of a man!Copyright 2012

ROCKIES (JUNE 8, 2012)They are dark, and blue, and jaggedAgainst a light blue skyAnd nothing else that I have seenIs as pleasing to the eyeAs the Colorado Rockies in the waning of the dayStill capped with the purest, whitest snowIn the final days of May

I have seen the Kansas wheat fieldsGolden in the sunAnd watched the MississippiIn its majestic southern runBut the bare and windswept stony groundAbove the timberlineCalls to me with an urgencyI cannot quite defineAnd the shallow rushing mountain streamWith its rocky bed of stoneHolds a certain playful regalnessThat belongs to it alone

I have watched the Pacific OceanAt night, when the tide was highAnd I could feel a little of the power of GodAnd a strength that cannot lieBut there is truth in a mountain lakeAt dawn, when the day is newAnd I know I’m seeing the art of GodAnd the He loves beauty, too

I’ve walked the fields of an Iowa farmAnd felt a calm releaseWith the sounds and smells of manAnd nature, working together in peaceBut a wild mountain forestWith pines so dense and tallIs nature pure and strong aloneAnd no sign of man at all

I have crossed the Painted DesertAnd the Arizona sandAnd known the countless colorsOf that gorgeous magic landBut I prefer the greens and brownsOf a mountain forest highAnd the cloudy whites amid the blueOf a Rocky Mountain skyThey are dark, and blue, and jaggedAgainst the light blue sky

And I hope they are the last I seeWhen it comes my time to dieI pray it is the RockiesIn the final days of MayThat treat my final visionOn my final day

copyright 2012

ESSAYS

AND AWAY WE GO! (November 25, 2016) I have really enjoyed doing these reviews for the last two years. It has allowed me to revisit my English teacher roots, and without dealing with obnoxious high school students. This is the twenty-third, and last (at least in the foreseeable future) review I'm going to do for Page and Spine...or anybody else. Through all of them I have tried to give some kind of guidance toward improving writing. Whether I've offered criticisms or heaped praise, I've done my best to specify why I thought so and what would be an improvement, or why this particular feature was praise-worthy. The point has been to help any writer or potential writer have an idea for improving their writing. Have I succeeded? You as a large group have been very parsimonious with your feedback, so I don't know. I can only hope so. This is (almost) your last chance to offer comment! I decided, with some reluctance, to give this a rest for two reasons. One is simply that the stories the editors have chosen have become so darn good that there has been less and less for me to offer in the reviews except praise. But the primary reason is that I want to devote the time to my own fiction. I have an editing task to do for one novel and finishing the first draft of another, plus the regular contributions to my website. There's only so much time available; something had to give. And so, with that, let's get to November's stories.

"A Cross to Bear" by April Hunter was November's first offering. I want to throw in a complete irrelevancy. She is billed as a former model and professional wrestler. I've got to say that the name "April Hunter" would be perfect for either profession.As for the story, it's pretty good, but holds a small disappointment. I like those definitions of regret vs. remorse, though I'm not sure they're objectively accurate. My Word thesaurus gives each as the first synonym of the other. But here they are subjective definitions, which makes them valid. She sets up the climax and the solution very well—giving background that establishes the source of his salvation while not giving any unnecessary foreshadowing. I liked that part. The disappointment was that she missed a great chance to show off her writing skills. When the buck suddenly appears in the headlights, she gives us "Jerking the wheel, Nick swerved hard and lost control." And then he's in the car, in the water. Why not describe the crash? Did the car roll? Did it spin three or four times, maybe bouncing off a tree? Nick observes "...nothing but woods and the narrow beams of the car’s headlights on blackened asphalt," so running into a tree would be expected. Did it go air-born as it went into the water? Did the buck escape unscathed? And how about that lake? Just suddenly there. A little too convenient for the ending. She should have given us some indication of its presence earlier. So, the story is well constructed generally, but the lack of details, both of setting and action, weaken the overall presentation. It could be a lot better.

Francine Garson has given us a case of bitter depression in "Motherhood." The mother does everything right but cannot prevent what happens beyond her control. A story written in second person is always tricky. Some editors won't touch 'em. I have one in mind...one of the reasons I need more time for my own work. This one is done as well as any.

Lee Allen Hill is a master of dialog (among other things) and this mastery is on display in "Comeuppance." Another of Lee's specialties is portrayal of a character in a setting: how the character moves, relates to the other characters, and, of course, the verbal exchanges. In this story, he's chosen to make that featured character a hero...at least in the eyes of his battle mates. Teddy Berline moves through the setting, his conversations and actions telling us his story. This is one of the most important things inexperienced writers can learn from master story tellers. Tell the backstory through dialog, piecemeal, organized but not pedantic. A beginning writer would be inclined to start the story with a description of the rescue. But the rescue is not the point of the story. I saw one little thing that bothered me. The Texan remarks that the man Teddy rescued "wasn't even Canadian." Yet shortly after we find out that Coyne ("the bad penny"—clever) is Canadian. The author might have simply ignored this, since everything else the Texan thought he knew was wrong. But since Berline contradicted the other points, it would have been consistent for him to contradict that one too. And yes, that's a pretty tiny nit to pick in a story as well-written as this one. And congratulations to author and publisher for giving us this story on Veterans' Day. On a personal note, my father's oldest brother (and the man I was named after) at age eighteen was killed by German machine gun fire in France sometime between midnight and dawn on November 11, 1918, only a handful of hours before the official end of World War One.

Last month I "accused" the author of the story "The Dropped Plate" of writing the story simply as lead-up to the last two sentences. I don't mean "accusation" as a criticism. It is simply an observation. This month I'm making the same observation. "Taking Up Space" by Justin Lantier-Novelli is a long joke. But it's a really funny joke, told well, and it doesn't give us even a hint of the punch line until it is sprung upon us, unexpected. However, to give credit when it's earned, I will say that the dialog here, both internal and external, are well done. He paints a good clear picture of his current girlfriend, especially her mental acuity. There is one thing that could have been subtracted. The four paragraphs about his "husky" build and the psychological impact could have been skipped. It adds nothing to the story and actually subtracts from the impact of the joke by making the lead-up longer than necessary. He's in his early thirties and he enjoys having sex with girls in their early to mid-twenties. No explanation needed. He's normal.

P&S has gifted us with two Peter Wood stories in November. Last month I labeled his story, and most of the month's, as "quirky." This month I'll use the term "whimsical." His first story of the month, "Not Only Nature Hates a Vacuum," is science fiction whimsy, and visits a theme we've seen before. An unhappy employee gets revenge on a butthead boss by seizing the opportunity presented by a third party, like "By Land or by Sea" from August and "The Pause That Refreshes" from October. Aliens are an excellent source for whimsical stories if used correctly. Peter Wood does just that. This alien uses the hard sell to push his extraterrestrial vacuum cleaner, and demonstrates the very human anxiety of a sale slipping through his fingers before he can close the deal. And then, just like in "By Land or by Sea," the obnoxious boss's bragging and lack of consideration pushes the employee to take the step that will cause the boss some misery. Even though Hightower's physical traits are not described, we can easily see him as physically big, as full of himself as a man can be—much like Marsden in the August story. In keeping with the nature of whimsy, no person is really harmed but their precious property is pretty much ruined. I want to point out, also, a device he uses to great effect: the one-sentence paragraph. It's an excellent way of stressing that one thought. His second story, "The Rapture Wasn't All it was Cracked Up to Be," is an example of fantasy whimsy. In August, I pointed out that there were three kinds of stories, and one kind was "the man that learns better." The story "Baptism" was an example. In November Mr. Wood has given us another one of the same type. And both stories feature a minister as the central character, the one that learns better. I wonder if this reflects the author's view of preachers in general? But what a glorious Act of God! All the jerks and jackasses and assholes are gone! "With the career politicians gone, governments actually got things done." I'm sure that right now millions of people in this country, even more than usual, would love for this solution to be more than just fantasy. The funny thing is, of course, that jerks and jackasses see only others as the real jerks, and themselves as the personification of reason and intelligence—much like Todd feels about himself until he learns better. I'm sure every person reading this can quickly, with little or no consideration, point out someone on the national stage they consider a jackass. Probably either the winner or the loser of the Presidential election. And, as in his other stories, he makes great use of those one- or two-sentence paragraphs, especially to close out the story. I'm jealous. I wish I could write short stories as clever and down-right enjoyable as Lee Allen Hill and Peter Wood consistently produce.

All good things must come to an end...how's that for a cliché? I do thank P&S's editors and publisher for inviting me to do these reviews. I've enjoyed doing them, and I've learned things that will help me in my future writing. That's something worth mentioning. The very act of writing about something and thinking about it often leads to the discovery of new truths; that moment of discovery can offer as much satisfaction as putting the last period on the final draft of whatever writing project you've finished. Thank you all for your attention. Again, this is your last chance to offer commentary here on the pages of P&S. There is one other venue open, though.Please visit my website at http://www.fgwaiss.com. There's a contact page, a blog that discusses things much more general than the reviews here, and "The Mascot Serial," a fanciful continuing story about some bad-ass characters. I must give credit to N.K. Wagner for the idea to do that. I was looking for a good quote to close this, and I found one I liked, and have tried to follow:"Be kind and considerate with your criticism...It's just as hard to write a bad book as it is to write a good book." ...Malcolm Cowley

copyright 2016

October’s Oddities (October 28, 2016) After September's month of the dead, the editors have given us a month of the quirky. October's stories are filled with special people doing odd things. There is magic and murder and masks and a monster. Totally appropriate for the month that ends in Halloween.

Quirky is a good, though inexact adjective to apply to the first two stories. "Avon Malone" by Jenny Harp is a straight-forward account of an odd individual. Quirky. She was practically desperate to get fired. Why didn't she just quit? That bit of illogic is part of the eccentricity of the person and the story.Jenny Harp is a regular contributor to Page and Spine, but usually in the Crumbs section. She has managed to put together a short story that has the same idiosyncrasy as her Crumbs contributions.

What a strange thing to say to your bride during the wedding dance. I'm referring, of course, to the statement "My poor Georgie" uttered by Logan Button in Carla Sarett's "You Can't Hurry Love."But then, everything about that courtship was strange. It is clear that Logan never learned even the slightest thing about Georgie's wants and likes and feelings...probably because she very determinedly refused to show him any hint of what they might be.I'd have liked a few more words about Georgiana. What does she look like? Where are her parents, especially at the wedding? And what of Logan? The author has tried to give us some subtle hints about Logan, but perhaps they are too subtle for me. I suppose his driving habits and his awkward lack of a formal proposal is supposed to tell us more about him, but I'm not sure what it is.Perhaps they both needed five years to grow up?Both of these stories feature a woman of unique personality—yet, almost exactly opposite. If we could transpose them, it's pretty clear that Georgie would have walked out of that job without hesitation or visible regret. Avon would have stayed in the marriage and had a great time keeping Logan off balance.

"The Dropped Plate" by Derek McMillan is also a story with an eccentric twist. I doubt an unsuspected murder was ever solved so quickly or easily, especially by a non-professional.But the real point of the story is not the solution to the problem. The whole story is a build-up to those last two excellent sentences.

Peter Wood has been a regular contributor to Page and Spine for over a year. His story, "The Pause That Refreshes," is a cheerfully odd story. If you go to the index and read the rest of his stories, you'll find that they are all cheerfully odd. Quirky. Like this one, they all feature a person who has a problem with his or her job.The way he's put this story together is unusual. He starts the story in the 26th of October, jumps to the 29th, then goes back to the 1st. Then he's back and forth throughout the month, showing how the soda affects him personally, how his use affects his marriage and his job, and finally how he "wises up" to use the soda to his advantage.Although keeping track of what happened when was a bit of a pain, I liked this device. I think it makes the story stronger than if he had simply presented it in chronological order.There is magic in this story beyond the soda, despite "the attendant's" assertion that there isn't:“I thought it just appeared.” “The soda’s magic, not me.”Yet, he polishes the filthy old and unplugged machine with a polka-dot hanky and suddenly the machine is like new and humming. Also, he knows Jack's name. So there is magic besides the sneaky ingredients (marijuana?) in the soda.The brief conversation with the psychologist, split into two parts, helps Jack—and the readers—understand why the magic works on him, and why it didn't work on Maddox...on how it can work on his bosses. The shrink tells him he needs something. He needs time off. He's been working seventy hours a week and driving a lot and trying to screw an injured guy out of a fair insurance settlement all at the command of his bosses. He needs a vacation.The soda gives him the means to get it...and maybe giving those bosses a little screwing of their own.

Like apples? Perhaps you are an apple connoisseur? If not, you might be one after reading DL Shirey's "Tasting Apples at the Edge of Epidemic."I'd have liked to have a little more information about the epidemic—lives lost, geography, time span—but that's not what the story is about. It's about tasting the apples grown near their little town and the precautions dictated by the government to prevent the spread of the disease.At the same time, the author leads us to believe that Phee has passed on, probably from the epidemic.To apple connoisseurs like Phee and the narrator, the metallic tang of the required G4 is anathema to their palates. So they will occasionally cheat and eat the apples right off the trees.But Phee got caught. She's not dead, just under arrest...a sort of medical arrest, perhaps, to ascertain she will not spread the contagion.I liked this story. I learned a little about apple varieties I'd never heard of and the author does a good job of incorporating the constant presence of breathing masks and gloves into the descriptions. It would have been easy to forget that detail, or simply discount it, but he did not. Good story.

The final two stories are appropriate for Halloween. The first, "Sun Child" by Priya Sridhar is a retelling of the fairy tale Rapunzel, and this is quite similar except for the tower—which is considered by Gertie, the gardener/witch that accepts the baby in exchange for all the greens the mother wants during the pregnancy. But she decides that such a tower would be cruel. In the original, Rapunzel stayed in the tower with no door and only one room and one window. Fairy tales usually did not bother to consider the necessities of human bodily functions.This story is shorter than the original (actually, there were three or four "originals" but I mean the one in the Brothers Grimm collection). There is no prince to complicate the lives of the two women or the story.

In the past I have commented on the use of various literary devices, especially similes, metaphors, and personifications. None of October's stories use these very much. There are one or two scattered around, but none of the stories employ these with any serious intention.The last story, "The Monster" by Anika Morshed is like the rest in this regard. There's one good one at the very beginning: "He gave her nightmares, huge gaping ones that ate her whole and shocked her awake in cold sweat." The monster is not really presented as a metaphor for her sister's dreams...rather, she imagines it is there, as many children imagine monsters under the bed, and it forces the nightmares upon her sister.She wishes the monster was under her bed, and she had those dreams, but it never happened. This left me a little dissatisfied because I'd like to know why her sister rejected her comforting arm and presence. Why did she stop telling her the stories of the nightmares? The story seems incomplete without that explanation.

I've saved the one that left the biggest impression for last: "The Mangaka Lover" by Russell Hemmell. I like fiction that encourages or even forces me to learn something. For this one I needed to find out exactly what manga was, and also bento. I had a good idea about manga, and the story context gave me more, but bento was not a word I'd encountered before. Now I know. I love Wikipedia.The title of the story has a bit of ambiguity. Does it mean a person who loves the mangaka, or is the mangaka the lover? I think both are correct for this story, so I give the title an "A."This story goes beyond quirky and dives right into the haunting pool. But it could be better.Questions: Are Nick and Naomi Japanese? Brazilian? American? When Nicholas speaks with Julia or her mother, do they speak Japanese, Portuguese, or English? Are they bi- or even tri-lingual? Nick especially seems to be at home in at least Japanese and English…if he's going to work successfully in New York for four years, he better be fluent in English.Which brings me to one of my complaints. The language is inconsistent. For examples: “I go for a walk.” …I was on the point to ask…But I stopped reading my previously beloved manga – I put them in a box and forget about it.These are not normal English phrases. They have the sound of a foreign language influence. In the last of those three he started the sentence in past tense and finished in present—unless the "e" in "forget" was supposed to be an "o".Here's more: There was not a lot that I could do but leaving...I had still the impression to hear Julia’s voice...Again, there is a definite "sound" of foreign influence. But in other places we get straight English: It turned out to be sooner than later, that first day. Julia looked the same, her hair as shining black as I remembered, only longer. Two things struck me: she was dressed in white silk, the mourning colour in Japan; and she walked. At her feet, high heel shoes like the ones I designed for YSL.I observed her in a dream-like state, trying to make sense of those details. And when she moved on, I followed her to Azabu, a quiet and luxurious residential area with elegant houses.The story would have been better if the use of language was consistent; something the author might have done if he'd decided specifically what nationality Nicholas belonged to. In the last section of the story we have no hint of the foreign influence. It is all solidly standard English.As for the story itself, it is clear from the very beginning that Julia is not nearly as devoted to Nick as he is to her. She likes him for a boyfriend, but needs more for a lover.Was she this self-centered before the accident? We are not told. Is Kimera real? Real to Julia, certainly. But after seeing her in Japan, Nicholas avoids looking at the real evidence. It is not that some male entity is there with her. It might be some kind of illusion, or a human person made to look like Kimera. It is even possible that in four years she has had her teeth fixed to look like fangs, although to what purpose?But she is walking! Somehow Kimera, whether existing only in her imagination or an actual physical alien being, has restored her damaged spine and her ability to walk. Walk normally, judging from his description.Nicholas has had to deal with quite a shock. It is no wonder that he has become a little squirrely. (Sorry, couldn't resist.)As I commented earlier, this story left the biggest impression on me, so that is certainly a compliment despite my nit-picking. That image of Julia lying naked on the floor and then seeing Nick and showing him her pearly white fangs has stayed with me for a while. It is almost too bad that he did not simply let it end there, with a quick comment that Julia put that moment in her manga.

This collection of stories was a nice change from September's month of death. Quirky and idiosyncratic is much less depressing. Now we can all go out and enjoy the changing colors of fall and wonder if November will provide stories fitting for the first snowfalls of winter.Although the calendar declares December 21st as the end of autumn and the beginning of winter, in practical application north of the Mason-Dixon line, snows begin in November and fall comes to an end. Perhaps other things will come to an end as well.

copyright 2016

Mes de los Muertos (September 30, 2016)Page & Spine has made this September the month of the dead. I read the stories, and I see dead people. Death by old age (twice), death by violence (also twice), and death by illness (yep, twice for that one too). There is also the death of a marriage, the death of connectivity, and, hopefully, the death of routine loneliness. And one (one!) semi-happy short story just for variety. We'll start with that one, "I Just Found Out" by Samuel Barnhart. Breaking and entering is a crime. But to the narrator, not doing something to repay Ben for that drink would be worse than the illegal act. There is a tongue-in-cheek irony in her actions. She does everything possible to conceal her identity...but then leaves her identification on the back of her card. Clearly she wants him to know she did it. Mr. Barnhart does leave us wondering: will this new relationship go anywhere? I can't help but like this story. Mr. Barnhart's style has similarities to my own. ...where I lived, which was built before mankind developed tools. I can see myself writing something like that. Also, he does a pretty good job telling the story in first person as a female character. This shows the author is aware of, and able to handle, the importance of "voice." We'll follow that story with its opposite: A story told from the point of view (though not in first person) of a young man written by a woman. I found "Four-In-Hand" by Carmen Tudor to be unsatisfying. The writing was fine, but it was missing something. What is wrong with Clive? Is he dying from illness? That seems the most likely, but injury is equally possible, or even violence. Why did the landlady refuse his visitors? Where is Robert? And where is a damned flyswatter? Okay, forget that last one. It is fine to leave the reader with a question; even two questions in some cases. But Ms Tudor has left us with so many. I have the feeling she is trying to generate a feeling of sympathy for the dying eighteen-year-old, but it is hard to feel sorry for him when we don't know why he is dying. Was "stupid irresponsible Robert"—whom Clive obviously has looked up to—responsible somehow for his current condition?There is simply nothing to help the reader identify with Clive. He is a complete stranger and it is hard to feel anything for someone we don't know. Yes, he has siblings and parents and a home. Most people do; these revelations don't help us care about him as a real and unique person. Another hundred or two hundred words, judiciously used, would have helped the reader become closer to the young man and at least have a chance to care. I really like titles that employ a double meaning or double reference to the story. "The Missing Note" by Penelope Yagake is such a title, as it applies to the note he can't find when playing the song, and also the note of music missing from his life since "she" passed away. Using "Reed" as the name of the character is clever, too, since it is a word very connected to music (though not the piano). This is the second of two stories that present death from illness. The story could have been stronger with two tiny changes, both in the fifth paragraph. That is the key to the whole story, and Ms Yagake has weakened it by two seemingly trivial choices, and both involving the same sentence.Here's the paragraph minus the first two and last two sentences:

There came a day when she didn’t act like her usual self. Her movements slowed and her voice didn’t sound like it used to. And each day after that, she appeared more exhausted than the last. One morning she couldn’t get out of bed. The doctor in town wasn’t able to do anything for her, and Reed was distraught. He stayed by her side as she grew weaker and weaker.

The sentence in question is the fifth. First, it is misplaced. As it stands it implies that the doctor wasn't consulted until she was so weak she couldn't get out of bed; that's extremely unlikely. The second change is a single word. "...Reed was distraught." Distraught?! Okay, by definition and historical usage, this word is appropriate. But how about "devastated," or "shattered"? I'm going to go into editor mode for a minute and present what I think would be a stronger version of the same three sentences, with one word changed and one added:

The doctor in town wasn’t able to do anything for her. One morning she couldn’t even get out of bed. Reed was devastated. He stayed by her side as she grew weaker and weaker. September ninth presented both stories of death by violence, and both committed by a person who is, at least at the telling, suffering from a mental illness. The first, "Red Letters" by Denyse Loeb starts out with Amelia reading a letter from her absent husband, and she has our sympathies. The author does a good job of concealing from us the total picture. As soon as she finds Richard's letters "missing," it is clear she is suffering from dementia of some kind. I did wonder if Ms Loeb intended that realization that early in the story. But the rest of the reality is very well hidden. We (or at least I) do not understand how much of what she is experiencing is a construction of her mind. It is not just the letters, it is everything. And then, despite Sam's best effort and his seeming success at "getting through to her," her mind rejects the reality almost immediately and dives back into the safe warm covers of her delusion. But...when she collapses on the floor and they need to help her stand and tranquilize her...is that happening there in the hospital lunch room, or is it a memory of what happened that fateful night? Or both? Is it even the lunch room? The totality of her delusion is left for the reader to contemplate.Good stuff. The second story of a violent death at the hands of a mentally ill person is "Hold Me" by Michael Wertenberg. This is told very directly in the first person by the patient. This is a great technique when done right—E.A. Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart" and "The Cask of Amontillado" offer classic examples. There are other similarities as well. In both of Poe's stories the killer observes things in his victim's actions that he inflates to great personal significance. Those exaggerated acts ("I saw him eye my watch," and the unforgivable insult by Forunato) present a justification for the crime. But the partial explanation from "The Tell-tale Heart": ("Object there was none. Passion there was none.") is much closer to the murderer's state of mind in this story. The one thing that was not clear was, is Claudia a girl friend? Part of his therapy team? Or some confused combination of both? I'm inclined to go with the second choice. Her insistence that he will not be late or her comment, ...not on my watch. indicate a professional concern more than a romantic or personal one.The ending is just really good. "Operation Humanity" by D. H. Hanni kills the internet...but apparently only in America. It is stated that she has hacked into all levels of government. Did she realize how vulnerable this leaves the country to foreign invaders? In a gloomy science fiction story, some harsh foreign invader would take over the country and the first thing they would do would be to delete the clearest threat to their new dominance: they'd find and eliminate Padma Karnik. Of course this story brought to mind the movie Live Free or Die Hard. But in the movie the bad guys were committing murder as part of their plan to steal billions. Padma would seem to have an altruistic motive; but close reading reveals a different agenda. The ironic twist is that, as far as we can see, she is as guilty as the citizens she condemns. What has she done to better mankind? Has she volunteered? Has she donated? She has stayed connected to deliver her message. She has walked her dog and eaten ice cream. She has spent no time at a homeless shelter. There is nothing altruistic in her actions! One phrase reveals her true mind set: After all, every genius experienced failures. Every great man or woman deals with adversity, and that's what these were. Padma fancies herself another genius making the world a better place by taking away something from everyone else. She is just another would-be conqueror demonstrating her superiority for all to see. One phrase in the last paragraph reveals this mindset: bring the country to heel. When you read a magazine, like Page & Spine, that does not specialize in any genre of fiction, one of the first things you wonder when you start reading is, what kind of story will this be? Will it be a romance? A fantasy? A western? "Family Tree" by Merran Jones tells you in the first two sentences that it is a literary story: Like a good Japanese beer, Joan had a big head. Actually, it wasn’t so much big as her body was small, emphasised by her sparrow hands and short, brown jacket. A good simile and an equally effective metaphor, one after the other to start the story is a pretty good indication of literary fiction. And the good devices continue: —his face the wet end of a cigar," and "Hers was the figure of a cream puff. I could use up dozens of words listing the excellent examples of metaphor and simile the author uses. As literary stories go, this one is very good. I had just one concern with the story itself. Joan is still working, but her hours have been cut. How will she afford to raise a child? She obviously can't depend on her parents to babysit; nor would she want them to. "Maintenance" by Tim T.K. presents the death—or at least the critical illness—of a marriage. It has its strengths and weaknesses...as do most stories. Its biggest strength is that the author lets us know that the narrator is former military without declaring that fact. He regards the time of day in military terms. He wears his watch on the inside of the wrist rather than the outside. He approaches his task in an orderly proficient military manner.This may be one reason his wife left. His equating of the rifle with his marriage, again without actually declaring it, is also a very strong point. The biggest weakness is that the narrator emphasizes that he is old. Yet, his daughter is obviously in elementary school and still in a lower grade—probably first or second. (It also struck me as odd that he is performing his task while his daughter is preparing herself for school. He doesn't feel any need to supervise or advise her?) The man presents himself, at least in his own mind, as old enough to be her grandfather. This may be another reason his wife left. But I would have liked one or two sentences to clarify the situation. "Ole Ethel" by Gary Sprague is the first of two stories about death by old age. This story shows something I've noticed and commented on in the past. An author starts out with some nice similes: trees lined like sentries and the sunlight flickered like a thousand fireflies on the dark, choppy water... . But then the device is abandoned as he got into telling the story. One additional draft focusing on the opportunities to use a few more might make the story even more enjoyable. He also subtly sets us up to expect something to happen to Louis, because of his temper, his fall into the lake, and the fact that the fish is named after his wife. But there is no surprise when Ernest collapses. As soon as he lifts that huge fish over his head we know what's going to happen. The author turns what could be a tragic ending into something more light-hearted. Well done. Christ said that the last will be first, and the first, last. So it is here, where the fist story of the month is the last discussed. In accordance with another quote, I've saved the best for last. I've been reading P&S pretty faithfully since 2012. I've probably missed a few issues here and there, when out camping or otherwise away from internet access, but only a few. William Cooper's "Snapshots of a Grandfather" is, without a doubt, one of the best-written stories ever to appear in Page & Spine. Maybe even the best. The story's theme is not special. A young man reviews his love of his now-deceased grandfather. There's probably a thousand stories out there with that theme. But it is how the story is told that makes it wonderful. Like the previous story, he starts out with some pretty good similes. The difference is that he continues them all through the story, and some of them are just outstanding. The first paragraph gives us a look at the author's style, and, as I noted, he continues with it to the end. I can't even contemplate listing all the wonderful pictures he paints for us with his words, but there is one I want to quote, from the wake, when he kneels at the casket: Closure. It’s a feeling I don’t normally experience. I’m always letting strings of my past hang out like tripwire, so I can emotionally fall over them later when I least expect it. I’m not used to tying them up. That is just special. Sometimes less is more, and that's true with my commentary on this story. No more is needed. September marks the end of summer and the beginning of fall, which is characterized by the beginnings of the death of leaves and the dormancy of grass. But it also means the beginnings of blazing colors on the hillsides and parks and wherever trees adorn the land. The stories this month, mortality-centered though they were, offered a literary equivalent of eye-pleasing colors. And we don't even have to rake them up.

copyright 2016

Wrapping Up Summer With a Splash (August 26, 2016) Peter Wood finished off the month with two stories about water and people of the water; what people are more of the water than boys and girls swimming in a river on a hot summer day? Well, yeah, merfolk, but they're probably fictional. The stories are similar. In each he tells the story in a limited third person, that limit being the thoughts and deeds of a single character. In both, the central characters begin the story out of the water and their thoughts are interrupted with a surprise by a person of the water—a quiet mermaid or a loud teenage boy. And both central characters finish in the water, of their own volition. Robert Heinlein, decades ago, wrote that there were three types of stories: boy meets girl (or girl meets girl, boy loses girl, etc.) Romeo and Juliet is a classic example; the little tailor (or its opposite—the great man brought low) and The Little Tailor is a good example (surprise!); and the man that learns better; A Christmas Carol is a well-known example of this. I bring that up because these two stories by Mr. Wood are both examples of that last type.In "By Land or By Sea" Marsden, an obnoxious business mogul stereotypical even to the cigar, indeed learns better, to his grief. Though not in the water, he is surrounded by it and cannot swim. And his plans have been washed away. The Reverend Jim Mason is not a stereotypical country preacher. He has a sense of humor which we learn in the first sentence. He also learns better, but embraces the lesson instead of resisting it and therefore enjoys his education much more. Like Tina in the first story, he finishes in the water. And they both see something unexpected but delightful at the end. I liked both these stories but...I would have liked "Baptism" to tell us what Jim did with his Bible. It was in his hand when the service was interrupted, and it isn't mentioned again. Even half a dozen words inserted somewhere would have accorded the Good Book the respect it deserved by witnessing its disposition.

"Monkey See, Monkey Do" by Robert Stahl is also a story featuring water. It takes place on an island and the one human character is delivered to the island via water. At the end, water takes him away.In the middle, though, this boy alters the generations-old customs of this tribe of monkeys. They learned new sounds and new entertainments and it seems likely they will revisit those after the boy is gone. But they are still animals, even though they have speech. The boy can understand their words and can even respond. This feature gave the story the flavor of a short story by H.H. Munro ("Saki"), where people and animals communicate naturally when the story calls for it. Or, if you prefer, the "everybody" language of the characters in Kipling's The Jungle Book. At the end, Mr. Stahl shows us the real difference between the monkeys and the boy. The primates are selfish and unsympathetic, thinking only of themselves and filling their stomachs. The boy shares half of what he has to eat and has real sympathy for the tiny monkey that must be at the end of the food line. By that sharing he has altered that monkey's concept of food. That monkey will now alter his eating habits, and who knows how far that influence might go? (This story is an example of the little tailor and the man (monkeys) who learn better.)

"Last Picked" by Lisa Finch has elements of all three story types. Ordinarily that would make it an excellent story. Sadly, I wasn't thrilled with it. I have no complaints about the writing, which was quite good. The dialog, especially, was lively and realistic. But the story, especially the ending, seemed clichéd to me. Nothing serious happened, but the mere thought of danger to Ally brings Tony back to his senses and he realizes where his love is. It would have been more entertaining if Tony had been the attacker. I felt sorry for Lily. I doubt Tony told her he wasn't divorced, and things were pretty good between them and then he pulls that wishy-washy stunt. I'm going to challenge Lisa to write a story from Lily's point of view—first or third person. Start at her relationship with Tony or even before, her emotional reaction to losing Tony to Ally, and where does she go from there. If it's written as well as this one, P&S will probably accept it and it would be something I'm not sure they've done before—a sequel to an independent short story.

I'm going to offer a slight rephrase of Heinlein's assertion. Substitute the word "plots" for "stories." When he wrote that over thirty years ago the popularity of "literary fiction"—stories without conflict—were seldom seen and especially not in his preferred genre of speculative fiction. The following story, plus others to follow, do not have plots; there is no conflict or problem to resolve. They are life scenes.

Joie de vivre is defined as a happiness or excitement about life. I've also seen it used to mean what the French words imply—the joy of life. Some things can be expressed better, more colorfully, in words or phrases other than English. Stephen King wrote a short story titled "That Feeling, You Can Only Say What It Is in French" meaning déjà vu. The reason for this little bit of useful trivia is that Brad Perry's story, "Heartbeat," is an example of joie de vivre. In the drums our unnamed character has found his joy of life. He just plays. But there is more. The author gives the impression that he, too, has discovered that joie de vivre in his writing in the same way. "He falls asleep in sputtering spurts, the way brown water runs from an old faucet." and "With a belly-stretching gulp of air, he leans forward and starts playing along." Here's the best one: "Every tap is a broken bone, a thunderclap. Conversely, he likes his bass a little loose – a giant’s footsteps." The writing is picturesque and almost manic as it slides from thought to thought, sensation to sensation. Mr. Perry is playing the words like the drummer is playing the snares; his paragraphs impact the eyes like the ride cymbal impacts the ears. Outstanding.

Last month we had a male character who was, in past parlance, "not quite right." That was Terence in the story "Assurance." This month we have a similar character, Edward, in "Something New for Edward" by Von Rupert. Is it a requirement that "slow" male characters have multi-syllable names? Besides these two there is Lennie in Of Mice and Men, Charlie of Flowers for Algernon; there may be more, and probably some exceptions, too. I'm certainly not familiar with every story featuring such a character. In the stories from last month and this one, both characters are very dependent on routine. Terence was clearly a willing slave to time, especially. Everything done at the same time. It's clear that he knows his only way to avoid trouble, like being late to work, is to follow that schedule no matter what. Edward is the same, but different. He lives by routine, but so very much wants the routine broken...by something good anyway. The suitcase gives him hope for something good...and then his hopes are shattered when he discovers it means nothing. "The suitcase meant nothing. A bad thing he hadn’t considered." So he creates his own new as an exercise in rebellion. Nothing on his toast! That's new, and it disturbs his mother—his scrap of revenge for dashing his hopes. And later he'll make a new face in mockery of his mother's surprised expression. Terence gave us no sign of any rebellious feelings. He is older, has responsibilities, and is content with the routine. Edward, younger and without the chains of responsibility beyond his own care, can afford to hope for something different.

"Brushfire" by Andy Tu is a story that holds its darkness close within itself, allowing us only a glimpse that teases us to imagine the more that must be hidden. The author manages this by giving us unanswered questions. Why did Momma leave and how long ago? Did she leave or was she "disappeared?" How did Cubert get under the couch? And is Papa killing the dogs? If so, why? Does church offer him salvation, or an excuse? The more I write, the more speculative questions come to mind. I'll let the readers devise their own. Is it a good thing when the best sentence of the story is the last one? It does help the whole story stay with you...or haunt you. This story finishes that way: "Papa gazed deep into the fire; the flames washed in his eyes toward the sky, reaching through the smoke like hands trying to escape from hell."

I have very little commentary to contribute about J.R. Johnson's "Last Light." Certainly nothing critical! A story about the death of a loved one can be difficult to do well. It is easy to write too sentimental—even maudlin—and lose the audience. It is also easy to avoid that too well and leave the story cold or unfeeling. Ms. Johnson manages to walk that line in-between, and do it very well. Her last sentence really helps with this. Instead of ending with tears (those come near the beginning) or wailing, she ends with determination. Her father's passing will not mark the end of her task or her resolve.This story really feels like a bit of memoir, and I wonder how much is true or has been expanded (or subtracted) from real experience. I'm going to toss a self-serving plug in here. The author, plus any other readers who really liked this story might like one with a similar circumstance but from the point of view of the man expiring. I direct you all to the stories index for November, 2013, for my story, "Thanks, Winstons."

Usually I find a flaw somewhere—an inconsistency in the writing, a suspect use of language, or simply wording that left something to be desired. Not this month. Except for the case of the disappearing Bible in "Baptism," I saw no technical flaws. Authors (and editors)--before school starts, take a bow.

copyright 2016

Summertime Speculation (July 29, 2016) July seemed to be the month for speculative fiction stories. We had imaginary (?) time travel, the ability to look into the future, a melting man, something that is apparently fixing to replace the human race one bloody death at a time, and a world where mothers and fathers don't get to be mommies and daddies. Not a happy story in the lot—with the exception of that one about mommies and daddies. That one is happy throughout—appropriate for a little girl raised with indulgent affection that never fails. Then there were also some stories that did not fit into that genre: Lee Allen Hill's "The Cage Always Wins" is one of those. I have in the past praised Lee's writing and Lee as a writer. I thought this story was a little more down-beat than what he usually presents to us. But he offers us something new to appreciate. Recently I've touted the use of metaphors, similes, and personification. I only noticed one metaphor: "Our 'friendship' was erected on the oatmeal legs of false equality." But he uses another device here. Alliteration. Alliteration is usually more useful in poetry, but Lee has scatter bits of it throughout this story. You might not even notice it as anything special, it is done so subtly. Many of them are simply two words put together just right. Examples abound, especially in the first half of the story: Bottles, bimbos; liquor, ladies, and, yes, the long-loped ponies; fettering foibles; the penitent parolee; We Latino peons have been fighting the puke reflex since Pizarro raped Peru. It's obvious in most of these that he could have used other wording—wording that did not alliterate. He could have written "race horses" instead of "long-loped ponies." If you look at these, and the others in the story, I'm sure you can find alternate wording. But the alliteration helps the sentences to slide through the rocky recesses of the nifty narrative like a sultry stream through static stones. And that's what happens when the alliteration is forced. Not so good, huh? Like all literary devices, it must come naturally. As it does in this story.

"The Bully" by Mark Tulin is something different. It gives us a look at your typical schoolyard bully...but from the inside instead of the outside. I'll confess that I was victimized by this type of person, mostly in junior high. Not too surprising for the smallest kid in class—including the girls; also the youngest. I grew over six inches after my sophomore year, which put an end to that. So I enjoyed a story that gave us a look at the true person inside the bully. He is not a bully because he wants to be so much as he thinks he must be to survive. He is physically weak and has no support from family to bolster his self-image, so he bolsters it by bullying those he sees as even weaker and kissing the one girl all the boys want to kiss. These things make him special. There are no clever literary devices used here...which is entirely appropriate. It would be unrealistic to have a fifth-grader use such devices, especially an underachiever.

There is little to say about "Moms" by Chris Dean. It is a straight-forward story with little decoration featuring a character that is just like the story. Again, since it is written in first person, it is appropriate that the story is told in such a way as to be true to the nature of the narrator. It does contain one invaluable piece of advice that is not presented as such...which makes it even more effective. When cops with guns tell you to do something, do it. Don't resist, don't argue, don't protest or shout or scream. Swallow your offended pride and righteous indignation and understand that your life is in danger if you don't cooperate. No, that's not the way things should be. But understand that cops are just as afraid of the situation as you are. But they have the guns and the numbers. Then, when the danger is passed for you and them, then you can reasonably explain your objections. If they won't listen, a lawyer will.

The simple, innocent, and totally insincere question of "How are you?" produced "The Melting Man" by Brandon Hartman. This story is weird. Weird can be a good thing. So can vivid picturesque descriptions like what we have here: "the tacky slurping noises"; "His slender arms pooled at his sides. Blood and water drooled out of his fingertips, heavy and lifelessly weighted; gory pendulums at a standstill."; there's lots more, all good. However, I do have a complaint. There is one little bit in the story that does not fit...and yet it could have. It is this: The stark fragment of memory—the only piece of him still intact—was her soft voice saying “Gary,” and then it was loud and white and hot like something was burning. But he had not been there. He had only been told. That is a teaser to what could be another story of its own. I felt cheated. Either this bit should have been left out or it should have been expanded. My guess is that Mr. Hartman did not want to interrupt this morbid unreality with a sad reality. That's fine, but then don't put it in at all. As it is it really doesn't add anything to the story; it is a distraction. An intriguing distraction, true, but that actually makes it worse. As for Gary's fate, there may be a way to avoid it. Almost never answer the question "How are you?" or "How ya doing?" with "Good" or "Fine." My preferred answers are "Terrible!" and "Old and tired," and "Good as can be expected...if you don't expect much." If I do respond with "Fine," I'll try to add, "But don't believe everything you hear." These will not only put some variety in your day, but also in that of the questioner. You'll usually get a chuckle or smile in response and often exchange a few words or sentences that actually qualify as communication. And if somebody actually responds to my "Terrible!" with a "Really? What's the matter?" I usually answer with "Nothing. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention."Try some of these. At worst they might keep you from melting.

P.T. Barnum is often credited with the phrase, "There's a sucker born every minute." However, the evidence suggests that any of two or three men might have originated it and Barnum is not among them. Your trivia info for the day. Whoever said it, I liked the rephrasing into the story title, "There's a Time Traveler Born Every Minute" by Joseph Schwartz. I like the title and I like the story. Mr. Schwartz really knows how to present us with a con man. The way he flatters the doctor and the way his assistant works with him to soothe and reassure the potential victim. It was almost like watching a less-than-scrupulous used car dealer sell a vehicle that is not actually all it is represented to be. When the first attempt failed and the proprietor (his only designation) paces the floor and finally goes to talk to Melanie, I half expected him to tell the doctor he had to consult with his manager about the offered price. One criticism: the author allows himself to get confused about who's who at the very end. The police officers are introduced as Lieutenant Horner (the man) and Sergeant Davis (the woman). It's really just a one word mistake; I'm surprised the editors didn't catch it. After the sergeant asks the lieutenant if he's heard of this man, the sergeant answers. Of course it should read that the lieutenant answers.

Steve Sibra has given us a flash of nightmare. He has titled it "Devon's Gift." In this nightmare some things with hooves and deadly intentions—and the ability to carry out those intentions—is in close pursuit, their heat felt at the very back of our fleeing narrator. This story, though very short, has some things in common with the lengthier "Assurance" by Deborah Rocheleau. They both stagger with an overburden of hopelessness. They both illustrate the consequences of bad decisions; and at the same time assure us, the readers, that they could not have known those decisions would be so bad. The big difference in the messages is the same as the difference in the stories. "Devon's Gift" is a very short read, and its message is that death takes only seconds. "Assurance" is much longer and shows us that death can take a very long time.

I can't, or at least shouldn't, critique "Women Can't Be Mommies." But I can comment on it, a little.I'll leave it to the readers that so desire to contemplate the demographics of the world-wide society Kara was born into. It might present an interesting mental exercise. Was this a utopia? Or a slave state? Or something else? But if there is a message here, it is that great change, for good or ill, happens when just one person—one determined and capable person—decides that the limits placed upon him or her are unacceptable. Kara had no thought, at age four, of changing the world. Perhaps not even at age eighteen. She wanted to be a mommy. She and Tommy figured out what needed to be done, took advantage of the circumstances, and did it for themselves. Everything else was simply piggy-backed off that one quite self-centered determination.When our daughter and her two kids lived with us for a summer, my four-year-old granddaughter loved playing in the bathtub. She also was a climber. We called her "Monkey" because she was always climbing anything climbable. She inspired this story.

July has given us a month of well-crafted stories to help us get through the hot weather, whether reading them in a hammock in the shade or in an air-conditioned room. August might be worse. Will the stories be even better?

copyright 2016

June Blooms (June 24, 2016)​ There was no June swoon, to use a sportscaster's term. This month's stories are all upright, strong, and determined, like all-season flowers bracing themselves for the summer. I have compliments for all...and criticisms for some, though I'll admit those are more about the story telling than the writing. Yes, there's a difference. Instead of approaching these chronologically I'm going to discuss them in the order they appealed to me; but there is an exception. The last story discussed was not my least favorite. There was not a one I did not find appealing, but I'm able to rank them according to my own subjective judgment. "The Foulest Monster in all the World" by Gary Cuba is a pickle barrel filled so close to the brim with metaphors that they threaten to spill out onto the floor. There are short fat ones and long thin ones and those just-right ones in between. Here's just a tiny sampling: "Bergson snorted smoke, then stalked slowly to the far side of his office. He raked at his mandibular tentacles and swished his scaly tail back and forth for several agonizingly long moments." Also, "And I'm sure my foul nemesis, the monster known as William Bergson III, fully expected to find a weakly fluttering, dying bug crawling back into his office, a pathetic thing that he could quickly squash into sticky yellow goo with one of his huge polished oxfords.'Twas not to be. This bug had a stinger." But they are not so numerous as to spill over the top and make a metaphorical mess of the whole story. They are confined to the monster, Bergson, and the narrator when associating with the monster. The rest of the story is told in a more appropriately pedestrian style. It's a good story, but not especially original. There's probably been thousands of stories written and viewed on television and movie screens about the man that will be fired by his boss if he doesn't produce, and a family member bails him out. In the TV series "Bewitched," Samantha bailed out Darrin multiple times. But the brilliant use of the metaphors makes this story special. One little peccadillo to criticize: the use of "ya'll" just the one time. That's a southern expression yet there is not one other expression or phraseology that would indicate southern dialect. If the narrator means "all of you," he should say that. Or even "you all" without the apostrophe. That keeps it in the same non-dialectic limits of the rest of the story. There was nearly a three-way tie for second place; but one edged out the other two simply because of its uniqueness. "Forearmed" by S. Sioprin reads like an NRA wet dream. Six- and seven-year-olds taking classes in gun safety and marksmanship, with lethal weapons made especially for their little hands. Someone should send a copy to Wayne LaPierre. He'd probably—uh, never mind. And by the way, I am not anywhere close to anti-gun, but I am decidedly anti-fanaticism and the NRA is the embodiment of one specific fanaticism.Putting aside the political commentary, this is a very visionary story. Whether the vision is precognitive or not, we will have to wait quite a while to discover. Visionary in another way, too. The descriptive phrases and words really provide the reader with a clear vision of the characters: "The trident tattoo on his right wrist was maroon dark and intertwined with green varicose veins," "His big bass voice had grit, was jolting; it cowed them all. His grim face with the garish stubble and jagged scar was terrifying." Not only the main point-of-view character, but the kids, too: "...blond little girls in cute purple outfits; small, tousle-haired boys affecting swaggers, like street-wise hoods. The small statures, smooth, hairless faces, stubby fingers, and baby-fat cheeks- the new generation of Americans was all “girly” to him." As with the previous story, any criticism is on the technical side. This paragraph bothered me: "Meanwhile, the kids frolicked in the yard, under the watchful eye of student teachers, all women, all barely nubile. Still, he smirked as he peered out the window. Enjoyed it when their skirts hiked up, displaying silky, luscious thigh. He flexed his shoulders, stiff from too much sitting. Well, damn straight he wasn’t getting any." The fourth sentence, "He flexed his shoulders..." does not belong there. It would be better at the beginning of the paragraph, but best in the previous paragraph. Then in the final two sentences, I'd have liked a little more. Those same young women are not mentioned, but it is implied that they should be present. Were they armed also? Why did they not shoot, or why were they not armed? Were none of them hit? Was he, the main character, the main target? One or two additional sentences would have provided us a clearer picture of that final scene. On the other hand, I really did like the description of the children when the shooting was over. Lastly, I thought the wording of the next-to-last sentence could be better. If the bullet is fatal, why is he walking around? The wording implies that his death should have come almost immediately. "He knew that the bullet in his chest was fatal," or "That bullet he took in the chest would finish him," would better explain how he's able to spend those last minutes buying Coke and fudge for his protégés. Again, due primarily to its unique subject matter, "Survival" by William Masters really pleased me. The author uses no literary devices for description—there is virtually no descriptions of characters or places at all. But given the brevity of the story, none are vital. The readers' knowledge of law enforcement uniforms and cars in general provide what's needed. Maybe the best thing about the story is that Child Services is consistently referred to as "it." There is no man or woman, only "it." This is an outstanding way of emphasizing the impersonal treatment Child Services hands out. It manages to imply that this is not the first time Child Services has been involved in Steven's life. I have one gripe—again minor and technical. His younger brother hopped a freight train to St. Louis. At age eleven? That's pretty hard to believe. And why St. Louis? Was there someone or something there that offered sanctuary? And how did he get that information from his brothers? Phone? Letters? The story gives the impression that the parents wouldn't be cooperative in the brothers' communications. The next story to look at is "Saving Mr. Higgs" by Caroline Taylor. This is the second-longest story of the month, yet I have the least to write about it. It is an entertaining, amusing story without pretension; ironic, since the crux of the story is about pretension. The only thing more pretentious than having a butler is the butler himself. The best thing about it is that most of the story is dialog and Ms Taylor enhances the dialog with brief mentions of the speakers' physical actions. “Touché.” I took a sip of iced tea. “Working there hasn’t been any sort of lifelong dream of mine. But ...” and “I bet he would.” George leaned back in his chair. “You’re a very attractive girl, Hortense, despite the horrid name." These enhancements add realism to the dialog and the characters. This story is simply very well-written and try as I might, I can find no criticisms; not even little technical nit-picky ones. P&S did something unusual for the first issue in June. They featured two stories by the same author. That author is Ruth Z. Deming and the stories are "In Pursuit of Happiness" and "Saving Charlotte." "In Pursuit of Happiness" is a cat story. I'm not a cat person, though we did provide a home for a very well-behaved one for a year or so a long time ago. A story told in first person by a cat is not usual fare, but Ms Deming does it very well. It seems likely she has personal experience with a cat. I have only one quibble: "De temps en temps, I’d think of running away." There is no justification for the French phrase. The rest of the story gives us the cat's ruminations in plain everyday American English. Why would she have such a phrase in her repertoire? If the author wants her to use a foreign phrase for a casual change of pace, using a mol would make more sense, since she was in the house of a Jewish family and might have heard the Yiddish phrase. And now we come to the longest story of the month, "Saving Charlotte." It is well written. The occasional simile is well done, like this one: "There was only one thing to do when our house burned down in Philadelphia, move to where the sun shines and sunsets spread out across the sky like a purple flag. Sure, I took the seeds of my cancer with me, just as she took that brilliant brain of hers littered with the unstoppable manias—" Unfortunately, it also has the biggest oops! of the year so far. I pointed out last year for a story that a good story can be branded as exceedingly flawed when characters and settings do not match necessary reality. Except for fantasy, of course. This story has that regrettable feature. Who else noticed? The narrator is ninety-one years old. Her two daughters, Charlotte especially, are described as young women. They are presented as young women—women in their late twenties or early thirties at most.If a mother is ninety-one, her children have to be in their fifties at least! Late or middle sixties is more likely. There is no way that a ninety-year-old woman has two daughters in their early thirties. If there was some kind of medical miracle to account for this, it should be explained. The goof may not be that egregious—I didn't notice it till the third reading. But it is a goof and one that hurts the integrity of the story. There are at least two simple solutions. One is to make "Mom" only sixty-one (although even that would mean she had her daughters after she was thirty) and the cancer has taken such a toll that she moves and feels as if she's thirty years older than she is. Another option would be that these are her great-granddaughters. She and Marvin raised them since infancy because of tragedy (or tragedies) that took the two in-between generations. I must point out that the fact that I didn't notice this until the third reading is a real compliment to Ms Deming. The story is engaging enough and so well-told that a reader just accepts what's presented. June is a month traditionally associated with weddings and romance. But this month's stories had not a hint of romance. The closest thing is the very slight implication of a possible future romance in "Saving Mr. Higgs." Even the cat didn't meet a female cat. I wonder if we'll get fireworks—literal or figurative—in July.

copyright 2016

May Flowers in Short Supply (May 27, 2016) Last month I focused primarily on two stories that made good and extensive use of metaphor and simile. I can't do that this month. There were six stories in May but only one of them really used those two particular techniques with any frequency. That one was "My Sweet Annie" by Michael McGlade. In one respect, I found this story to be a pain in the ass. It was, of course, those Irish names. How the heck do you pronounce them? I should have looked up those pronunciations right away, to save myself a little frustration, but I waited until I'd read the story three times before surrendering to the inevitable. In case you haven't looked them up or you don't have a ready knowledge of Irish names, "Aine" is pronounced "awn-ye." "Oisin" is "osh-een" and "Eoghan" sounds very much like "o-in". I must give credit to the web site http://www.babynamesofireland.com/for that knowledge. It provides audio as well as spelling, so you can really get the sound of the names as well as the meanings and origins. Mr. McGlade decorated his story with some outstanding picturesque speech: "...a mulch of rusted leaves finger-painted on the tarmac playground," and "Belfast fits me like skin." There's plenty more.When I read all of these stories I highlighted the similes and metaphors and personifications in yellow. This story had a lot of yellow on the first page. There were seven yellowed expressions there. Unfortunately there were only six in the rest of the story. I found that disappointing. The story seems a little unbalanced. But I can't really call it a flaw, either, because after the first page and a little the story is dominated by the dialog of young men drinking and partying, and to have them speaking with such clever technique would have been artificial. One other compliment: the narrator is not a particularly likeable or admirable person, at least for those of us privy to his thoughts. He is weak. Instead of striving to win and keep the girl of his dreams, he slunk away like a disappointed dog that did not get the treat he had so hoped for. When writing in first person it is easy to make the narrator strong or admirable. To make the character weak and cowardly is harder to do. It is done well here. There is one other way this story stands out among May's offerings. It is one of only two that offers a physical description of a character. We are told that Oisin is smaller than remembered and his face and eyes "are shriveled like old fruit." That's not much, but is more than any of the other stories supplies. I can't help but wonder if Aine looked anything like the redhead pictured at the top of the story. If so, Eoghan was worse than week—he was nuts. (I have a weakness for red hair and freckles.)But it is notable that none of these authors felt that physical description of the characters was at all important. In "Anila" by Aishwarya Singh we can infer that Anna's hair is long, but the primary descriptive details apply to the girl in the picture. This story came in second on the quantity scale of descriptive tools, but no worse than tied for first in quality. It has this offering, "letting the music wrap itself around my bones like tinsel," and "This is every life you’ve ever lived spitting you out like a bad taste. This is feeling the ghost of the little girl you once were dancing around your heels and vanishing in a cloud of giggles when you reach down to grab her." Wow. A shining example of beautiful personification that could be presented in a textbook. Curiously, the story with the most yellow appeared the same week as a story with, almost, the least. "Desire Lines" by Corrie Adams had no color at all through the first two readings. I decided on the third that "Our whole relationship fits into tiny, leftover spaces," qualified. Still, she eschewed the use of similes, yet the story does not really suffer for the lack. Would it have been better with more "flowery" speech? Only maybe. And, as mentioned before, there are no descriptions of either character. The descriptions are saved for the physical surroundings of the encounter. But this story, too, is told in first person and this woman is one that simply does not think that way. Her thoughts, at least in this small frame of time, are not poetic. She is at this place and time to end something she and Jonathan have treasured. It is not a time for poetry. Perhaps, with her, no time is. I do want to toss out an observation that may be outside what most of you have normally considered. Contractions are convenient and easy...and casual. But in writing, sometimes not using one can improve the product. Here's an example: "Yet that is why I’m here." Ms Adams has written that as a paragraph by itself. Good. But it would have even more power if it read like this: "Yet that is why I am here." The extra syllable gives the compound sentence a bit more balance and emphasizes her resolve. Here's the other one that I felt might be improved with a less casual treatment: "...but he doesn’t know a thing about desire." Using "does not" instead accentuates that lack in his understanding. This isn't something to be used too often—it can come off as stilted and artificial unless it's used as dialog from a person not native to the language. In this story these are the only two contractions that I would change. But it is another tool in the writer's box to be used with discretion under the right circumstances. The one other character to be favored with some physical description is the Wild Albanian in the story of the same name by Corrine Sullivan. And then mostly what we have is glasses that look like Coke bottles and that he's short. But this story has without a doubt the best opening of the month: "She didn’t really want to kill herself, not really. It was just an idle thought she had sometimes—perhaps I should get bangs. Perhaps I should shut the blinds so the construction workers can’t see me changing from the street.Perhaps I should kill myself." This story has an interesting slant. The Wild Albanian is presented as he might be a charlatan—a scam artist. But for Drew, he does indeed save her life and for a paltry $65. She need never again be Depressed. "Mabel's Table" by Gaye Buzzo Dunn is the most technically developed story in May. It has a clear conflict, a clear plot and a resolution. It has a character's inner turmoil that she resolves herself along with the exterior conflict. That exterior conflict is resolved in a clever and satisfying way while Mabel's inner conflict actually sees a reversal. Before reading her mother's final letter Mabel blames her father for everything. Afterward she realizes that her mother was the source of her father's misdeeds. So the devotion she held for the one transferred to the other. Despite the near absence of literary devices of language, this story does what it is supposed to do. It entertains, it holds the reader's attention, and it even offers a bit of a lesson. "Vantage" by Dan Micklethwaite, unlike "Mabel's Table," is the least technically developed story. It isn't a story at all. It is a vignette of two happily married young people out for a morning of each other.There is no conflict. There is no problem to be solved. There is little use of the language arts, though comparing the sky to "an overturned ocean" was a good touch. But it is a nice way to close out the month. In the previous stories there is no happiness from love. Anna and the narrator separate in "Anila" while Eoghan has never been together as a lover with his Sweet Annie. Drew's experiences with men have been brief sexual connections that served only to amplify her Depression. Mabel's fiancé was a blackmailer interested in her only because of money. Jules is not happy anymore with her husband, Mark, but yet is giving up her love for Jonathan in what may be the most noble gesture of her life. "Vantage" is the counterpoint to all of these. It is a quiet assertion that love can be as it should be, and work like we all think it should. May is a month when the weather is supposed to become more spring-like, decorated with flowers and sunshine that prepare us for the the summer that June brings. This last story serves that purpose well.

copyright 2016

Rays of Sun Among the Shadows (April 29, 2016)If Page and Spine had a literal spine joining physical pages, this month's issue could be bound in black. Not a really happy story in the bunch, the closest being a short off-kilter romance to finish up the month.I decided to use a different approach to the reviews of these unhappy stories. They are all pretty good, even though gloomy, but two stood out in one specific area. Both of them were featured in The Reading Lamp section: Sangria by A.F Compson and Ashes by Michael Duran. No, it was not that they had the only one-word titles. These two stories made effective use of metaphor and simile, and were not miserly about their use. To offer up a brief explanation that is probably unnecessary, similes and metaphors make comparisons to things that are at first glance unlike, but can be shown as alike for more picturesque writing. For an example of a metaphor I've used in my own writing, "Her hair was a waterfall of midnight." A simile on an earlier page reads "The white polo shirt revealed forearms and wrists like bridge cable." Some of the other stories used these devices too, but not with nearly the same frequency; but there was some quality.Take the First Bus by Dara Cunningham gives us "...forty is chasing me like diabolical shadow."Going Down by Johnny Black has "...my hangover roars to life like a pack of angry dogs."Black Diamond Express by Ted Grosch uses "The cattle catcher in front grinned with steel teeth." This is actually an example of personification—assigning attributes of a person to an animal or inanimate object. These are tough to do well, but this one works. Unfortunately, earlier in the story he uses "Time frozen in the moment." Whether time is frozen in the moment or the moment is frozen in time, it reached cliché status long ago. And if you read the paragraph you'll see that this phrase, even if it was original, really adds nothing to the description. It's like adding a worn Christmas bow to a functional brown paper bag.The examples I used above showed the difference between metaphor and simile. If the comparison uses "like" or "as", it is a simile. Some examples from Ashes are "...her emotions were an unsolvable mess, like a Rubik's Cube where each tile was a different color." And, "...whether she looked more like a cloud that had stumbled its way down to earth or an especially large piece of popcorn." Pretty good stuff. He uses objects with a high degree of familiarity so the reader easily gets the mental picture of the comparison. This is important. If the object used for the simile is generally not so familiar the effect is lost."His words were as deceptively twisted as a Moebius strip" won't work well for a reader that does not know what a Moebius strip is. But a Rubik's cube and a cloud or a piece of popcorn are familiar to just about everyone.Metaphors are comparisons without "like" or "as." The writer presents one thing as something else. Mr. Duran uses short metaphors: "The minutes turned into molasses." (I really like that one.) and a long one: "The bet David made while driving away from their house was one he lost—he put all his chips on the table trying to run a red light, except an eighteen wheeler called his bluff and David folded..." Another good one.However, I did have issue with this simile: "...as appreciated as a free sundae while waiting for your turn under the guillotine..." The meaning is clear and the comparison is valid, but it is incongruous. There were no sundaes, free or otherwise, at the time of the guillotine. The picture of someone eating a sundae (perhaps in a Dairy Queen cup with a red plastic spoon) while waiting in line amid the prisoners of eighteenth century France might well distract from the mood of the story. Using expensive French champagne instead of a sundae would have been more appropriate. Or, use the sundae simile with a more modern method of capital punishment—like a firing squad or an electric chair or even lethal injection.That is the only bit of criticism I can offer. Sangria is a very short piece of literary fiction and is a shining example of that genre. If the author can manage a much longer work—3,000 words and up—and maintain this level of literary quality, he or she should submit it to GlimmerTrain. They like this kind of thing and pay very well.This story is filled with similes. "It’s clean and bright like the sunny suburb you were born in." And "The wine is clear and bright, like the future of your career."It also employs a metaphor or two, such as "a smile of moderate-plus intensity and high viscosity."At the same time, I was a little disappointed that there were no similes or metaphors in the fourth section. Though still colorful, there were no comparisons of like to unlike. "Sangria, like the Portuguese word for bleeding" is not a simile. "Sangria" is the Portuguese word for bleeding. "Like" is used a few more times in the section, but none of those uses are similes.Which brings to mind a suggestion, for these two authors and any others. Variety! Don't always use "like" when employing similes, especially when you have so many in a small space. Intersperse "like" with "as" or "such as" or even "akin to.""Her sarcastic laughter was akin to a hyena's call" is just as legitimate as if "like" was used, but it does provide the variety that can keep even clever creative writing from becoming stale.So, although most of the stories were overcast, offering moods ranging from dark and sullenly stormy to the rainbowless aftermath, they did present sun rays of fine art peeking through the clouds.Will the dark gray storms of April give way to bright colors and sun in May? Or will Page and Spine present another gloomy month? I'll visit again when that question has been answered.

copyright 2016

MARCHING THROUGH MARCH (March 25, 2016) "March is a green, muddy month down below. Some folks like it. Farmers, mostly."---Bear Claw Chris Lapp (Will Geer) from Jeremiah Johnson Snow, wind, rain, wind, sunshine, clouds, drizzle, cold, warm, and wind. March has a real variety of weather as it moves us from winter to spring. This month's stories take us from infancy to late middle age, and from what was to what might be and what will never really be and, most important, what is.

"Be Careful What You Wish For" by Peter Wood is the never-really-will-be story. The genie-in-the-bottle theme has been inspiring new stories for centuries, and Mr. Wood has presented another one. This one has no serious pretensions, and he tells us this immediately with the first sentence. The beneficiary of the genie's largesse is referred to as a dimwit. Later on he is labeled as a poor bastard, a gentleman, and an unsuspecting schmuck. Al is only a Genie Fourth Class even after a thousand years. I suspect his attitude is holding him back. Buddy, Genie First Class, demonstrates a more mature approach to the task. As far as the story is concerned, I have only one dissatisfaction: I would like a little more description of Al. Actually, any description would be more, as we have none. I do want to point out that the descriptions of Buddy and dimwit schmuck are done very well with a simple brief description of their clothes. But I would have liked more physical description of Al and Buddy. Is Buddy intimidatingly larger? What is Al wearing? What color hair and complexion? Beard or moustache? Not all of this, certainly, but a little extra would be helpful. And here's a criticism that falls on the shoulders of the editors as much as the author (as I nip the fingers that write the checks). Two grammatical errors! This is terrible! How could they let this see print? Oh, sorry...put my psycho editor hat on there for a second. "There were worst places than North Carolina." Obviously, that should be "worse," not "worst." "Last week you turned that kid in Asheville who wanted to be the world’s faster track star into a rabbit." Again, it is plain that it should be "fastest," not "faster." But when those trivial things are the worse—er—worst that can be found, the story is pretty darn good. Almost magical.

The second speculative fiction story is "Ghost Town Girl" by Robert Dawson. The concept of a girl about eleven or twelve years old living in a town with a population of three having a friend that is a simulacrum of a dead girl is both inventive and completely believable. If the simulacra were there, it is almost inevitable that the girl would relieve some of her loneliness by conversation with anything that could "talk" back. That she lost her younger brother to sickness would magnify her loneliness and encourage her even more to seek out the company of the cemetery even if her brother was not there. When Penny, the simulacra, reveals that the town is unhealthy, Lauri reacts just as if it was a real girl telling her this; a person that has pretended to be her friend but obviously does not have best interests at heart. A good story. However, (as I mentioned last year, there's always a however), I have one little objection. The computer program that is Penny's voice speaks in English with an occasional Spanish injection. Perfectly normal for a girl of thirteen with the last name of Ruiz and consistent with how the program is described. But then she uses Canadian French profanity. This could be justified, but is not. The ghost town is obviously far north. That it is in Canada is believable, although Alaska is just as likely. And since the simulacra can learn from each other, it is possible that Penny picked up some salty language from the older deceased. But that should be explained. A thirteen-year-old girl "ghost" that speaks like one should not suddenly swear in a different language without a reason.

I did not like "The Moneyed Pilgrim" by Zerrin Otgur. This is mostly a subjective reaction to the theme, but there are things that are, not so much wrong, but simply lacking. It is a legitimate story in all regards. It has a beginning, middle and end. There is an introduction to the plot, the plot itself, and a conclusion. But a story like this makes its mark with outstanding characters or literary devices used well. Alliteration, personification, simile and metaphor and onomatopoeia and oxymoron. Some of these, at least, should be there to give the story a vibrancy, a tone of life, if you will, that will raise it above a mere narrative. But these things are sadly sparse. I noticed two, both in the same paragraph: "...a stiff breeze came off the lake, salty as tears..." and "...with a hiss, like an age-old sigh." Those are good. But in a story of about 2600 words, another dozen would not be too many. Many of the characters are really just background scenery, no more important than the sand on the shore of Pangong Lake, or the seagulls overhead. By itself, that is not terrible. In a story of limited length there might be no room to fill out the characters that have no true importance. But the main character must be real. I never believed the reality of Miles Chase. From the opening speech to the last conversation, I regarded Miles Chase as an actor in a play written by a novice playwright. Everything he says and does seems scripted. There is no spontaneity in him. One quick complimentary note: the author does present an excellent example of foreshadowing: "... but happiness itself, he soon had to admit (if only to himself), had peaked on that giddy night after the gloomy funeral. All it did now was slip away from him." Hasit points out this very thing at the end. Only the sadness and despair can bring about the happiness Miles craves. As I mentioned, I did not like the theme. The surest way to happiness is to love someone else and to make that other, or many others, happy. Happiness is more contagious than grief. Ebenezer Scrooge discovered that, although too late in life to benefit fully from the lesson. The author herself gives two hints to what Miles has in common with his uncle, and why he is just as miserable. The first sentence tells us that his uncle was childless. And at the end of the first section, Miles stumbles into his uncle's vacant king-size bed. He should have taken steps to see that the bed was not vacant—he should have had someone to share it with him. Someone who would see to it that he was not childless. Or he could have simply involved himself in the lives of children—orphans, or those stricken with poverty, and given. To make them happy would have made him happy. Instead he has repeated the fundamental lacks of his uncle and doomed himself to the same fate. I do not know if the author has given us this message intentionally or not. If so, then my sincere applause. Well done! But if it was merely an accident...respect your subconscious. Keep writing and eventually "accidents" like this will become intentions.

"Sundays" by Brandy Montilione, on the surface, is similar to "The Moneyed Pilgrim." It is a story of a single man on a quest that seems doomed to frustration. In "Pilgrim" Miles searches for decades for something he had only briefly and has no idea how to regain it. In this story Leon has lost the happiness he enjoyed for over thirty years. On Sundays he has what he needs most—routine and continuity. But this Sunday has unwanted variances and his quest is to keep things the way they have been for two years. But in this story I found Leon to be much more real than Miles Chase. His emotions are much more real—the grief is internalized and the variations in his day produce a tenseness—a frustration and a tinge of fear that I found very natural for a widower in his fifties at least. One dissatisfaction is that the reader knows almost from the beginning that something special is going to happen; something good will come of the disruptions in his routine. I never once thought that the day would end badly. My other dissatisfaction is the same as with "Pilgrim." A story like this is like a hamburger. Just a bun with a cooked ground beef patty is satisfactory, but that's all. But if you can add cheese, pickles, onions, lettuce, maybe even mustard and ketchup, you can have something more than just satisfying. It can be something memorable. But this story, too, is lacking in the literary accessories that could make it a highlight in the March menu.

"Samantha" by Melissa Grunow is a very short vignette filled with the emotions of childhood—and parenthood. It portrays the emotion very well, neither sappy nor cool, but a nice and skillful blending. Still, this crabby old reviewer can find something to complain about: "The animated characters and their makers have no idea the effect their movie has on this child." Certainly the animated characters have no idea. But their makers? I'm pretty sure that the writers and directors that chose the actions, the music, and the dialog of the characters have a very good idea what effect their movie will have on children. In fact, those effects are exactly why they chose the way they did. And they were certainly successful, weren't they?

"Whalesong" by M.M. Pryor, for my money (admittedly zero, since it's free) is the best story in March's march to April. Writing a story in second person is difficult and risky. Ms. Pryor does it very well. The literary devices I found lacking in the previous two stories exist here in comfortable abundance. "Time stretches out like the roll of paper that covers the exam table; there’s a whole roll of time waiting to be used,"; "...smoking shame cooks your guts like coal. It is as if menstruation is some great sun whose gravity eventually ensnares every girl and holds her in its sway. Every girl except you..."; "Skip ahead five months, nearly a decade in high school time." There are more, and they are all good—even great. The erotica is handled delicately (pun not intended, but left in on purpose) because it is not the focus of the story. This is a story about a teenage girl finding an alternative way to enter the sacred sorority of womanhood...and a way far more satisfying than what her sisters have experienced for their initiation. With her special entry into the society she becomes more than the others—she gains a power of person that she holds in smiling secret.

March is the only month name that is also a normally used word—both a verb and a noun. That really has nothing to do with anything—I just thought I'd point it out. March does have St. Patrick's Day all the time, Easter some of the time, and the weather is often crummy.

But none of these stories was crummy. Even the worst was pretty good, and the best was outstanding. Coming up with something other than glowing compliments was hard work.

copyright 2016

A Short Month's Short Stories (February 26, 2016) February is our shortest month. Many people approve of this since it is often our coldest. As I write that I notice that it is sunny outside, the snow is melting, and the forecast calls for temperatures around fifty degrees here in Wisconsin. But last weekend brought snow and a high of twelve.This month's stories are short, too. The longest is just over 1600 words and we have three under a thousand. And there is a distinct chill in more than one of them. I read and write mostly speculative fiction. I've also enjoyed mythology since grade school. That being said, I have to give a thumbs down to "Scrimshander" by Nina Shepardson.First of all, the image that Jakob is manipulated into carving by some kind of magic is from the Greek Mythological story of Andromeda being rescued by Perseus from the threat of the Cetus. The kraken had no place in Greek mythology but originated in the Scandinavian countries, so the author should have referenced the Cetus rather than the kraken. I suppose she was thinking of the movies Clash of the Titans. But that involves another problem. Whether called Cetus or Kraken, the creature was turned to stone by seeing the head of Medusa. So any tooth from the creature would be stone, too, and not malleable to a scrimshaw knife. (There is an "out" for this—one version of the story has Perseus killing the monster with his sword rather than the head of Medusa. But that version would need to be mentioned to explain the tooth.) If an author chooses to write even obliquely about something in the past—near past or far past, she needs to be sure things in the story match what histories and references will supply. Such care should be taken because readers (especially reviewers) are always looking for flaws.Never trust Hollywood for history! Never! Not even mythical history. However, those are mere technicalities and can be waved off if the story is good art itself. Unfortunately, that vindication does not apply. I like the concept despite the "flaws" mentioned above, but that's akin to liking a cream puff and then discovering there's very little cream. I liked the writing, which is why it is so disappointing.It isn't even close to being a story! It's barely a vignette. There is no plot, no problem, no conflict, no resolution, and only the bare semblance of emotion. Granted, legitimate literary fiction gets away with that but those works use words like parades use floats. The more the better, and as fancy as possible. This story doesn't have that saving grace either. Nina Shepardson has taken a potentially intriguing situation, introduced it, and then ushered it off stage before we could see what it could do. She used less than eight hundred words. She had another two thousand available to develop conflict or a problem or just some kind of tension.Jakob could have struggled harder against the guidance of the tooth. A better tactic might have been to involve a second character to encourage or challenge Jakob's acceptance of the magic that exists in the tooth. My preferred addition would be for one of the men that sold him the tooth accompany him to watch the carving while insisting along the way that the tooth was indeed from the fabled creature. Or Jakob could have an apprentice that fulfilled the same role. Perhaps the story could introduce a young and earnest man from a museum or college to play the foil to the message of the tooth. I would really like to see the author take this not-a-story and make it into one, either with one of those ideas or one of her own. Perhaps Page and Spine would accept the rewrite if it was good enough. I don't think they've ever done that, but maybe a first time is in the future? One thing that authors learn, mostly from rejections, is that getting an idea for a story is easy. I have at least a dozen ideas for stories on file. But putting that idea into a good story—that is the trick. That is the art and the craft. Just as Jakob must use the knife and other tools to create his art from the tooth, so must a writer use the tools of language to create art from the idea. "Scrimshander" is to a story like Jakob's carving would be to a finished work of art if he had done the woman's head and then stopped, leaving the rest of the tooth untouched. Lee Allen Hill is arguably the best author to be featured in the cyber pages of Page and Spine. "Lucky Me!" is another example of the truth of that statement. Lee is particularly good with colloquialisms and what I think of as un-stilted speech. His characters and settings always match perfectly with his dialog. This sounds like an obvious accomplishment for any writer. Sadly, it isn't. Many writers have their characters using standard American speech yet put them in a setting that would inspire un-standard speech habits. Some writers do the opposite, which is even worse. They try to give their characters "life" with colorful language but in a setting inappropriate to that kind of talk. And there are some authors that apply appropriate speech oddities to their characters and settings, but don't do it well. Either the peculiarities of language come too frequently, too infrequently, or simply at inopportune moments. Lee seldom if ever commits these errors. That is one of his main strengths as a writer.I too love irony. But I do have one observation about the presentation. Since the narrator is good enough at writing that he can get paid for it, he probably would have scored as more valuable than some others. Then again, if the author believes the judges would regard publishable writing as worthless, then that is exquisite irony on a whole other level. I want to contrast this story to the first one. There is a problem presented, a solution suggested and eventually reached. Someone wins, someone loses. That is what story is all about. It is no coincidence that "The Orchard," another top-of-the-line story this month, is written by another frequent contributor. Sandra Stoner Mitchell's stories are usually longer than Lee's and often contain more serious emotion. She gives us the sound of English as spoken in England and it is always a story. "The Orchard" is typical of Ms. Mitchell's offerings. The main characters are children, boys, who do something they shouldn't technically be doing, but accomplish something important and good. There is tension because there is a threat to life and health. There is emotion: fear and sadness and relief. These are all ingredients I have come to expect in her stories. And there is also humor appropriate to the age group of the characters. I'm not going to suggest that the editors have dedicated February (the month of Valentine's Day) as the Month of the Divorce, but they did give us two stories about a marriage dissolving. "Puppet Show" by Nicole Elwell is not a story in the technical sense of problem and solution. But this does qualify very well as literary fiction. She shows spoken words as physical debris and the two people as hollow wooden puppets. In literary fiction, the emphasis is on imagery, the more unusual, while still appropriate, the better. This is better. But one thing isn't clear. Is the woman merely amusing herself with these imaginative images, or is she seriously delusional? If the second, is that why her husband is divorcing her? The other separation story, "A Husk of a Home" by Christine Baerbock is longer and does have a plot, though not a particularly riveting one. Olive needs to get going on her trip with her daughter to her Aunt Jeannie and Bruce is still trying to talk her out of it. Why is she leaving? Obviously Bruce has done something to warrant this separation. My inclination is to believe he cheated on her, but a brief moment of anger resulting in physical assault is also a possibility. The author does a fine job equating the old farmhouse with her marriage, sometimes making the comparison directly and other phrases offering a more subtle reference. But perhaps the best is when Lindy throws down her one piece of chalk and it breaks into two pieces. Symbolism clear and unmistakable but not dominating. This is a story that demonstrates idea plus use of language to turn the idea into a finished work of art. I have very little to comment on "Aunt Caroline and Me" by Jo Wharton Heath. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I enjoyed the fantastical aspect of seeing text messages as blue letters in the air and the neat juxtaposition of modern practical concerns that go along with it, like having no spam filter.I liked the colloquial speech and how the plot is set up and then told simply as an aside to the narrator's actual intended point. This last story is similar to the first, with the existence of some kind of mysterious or mystical element that creates the reason for the situation. Ms. Heath uses about two hundred words more than Ms. Shepardson, yet manages to tell a story, complete with characters, setting, plot, and fantasy. It is constructed with economy of materials, yet adequate functionality and a little décor as well. I give it two thumbs up. I didn't even notice if the shadow saw his groundhog this month, but I always expect six more weeks of winter. The first four of those six weeks did provide some very good stories, and even the one entry I criticized had pretty good writing. There just wasn't enough of it; unlike the month, which seems like it lasts too long despite its relative brevity.

November's Battles, Plus One Big Cat (November 27, 2015)

When stories present obvious errors, poor expression, plot holes, deficient or cardboard characters, vague settings, and other assorted flaws, reviews are easy to write. Good and well-written stories present a tougher job. As this year has progressed, the editors of Page and Spine, and their authors, have made this job increasingly difficult. November is the month for Veterans' Day, so it's no surprise that three of the stories involve military service in some way. None of those stories take place in this century.

The first, Chicken by Eric Ullerich, takes place sometime in the 1950's. The narrator, a WWII veteran, has a seven-year-old son who is currently fascinated with that war, and there's a certain pride he holds that his father was involved. He would even like to inflate his father's role by casualty counts. Failing that, perhaps his father at least saw some dead bodies? Anything that would make Daddy a more important cog in the war machine. But Daddy wanted nothing to do with killing. He actually did all right in the war, from one point of view. He met his wife, did work he enjoyed, and it is implied that he did okay financially. He never killed any soldiers. He mentions only one date. The day he killed. That incident has left a lasting mark. He starts the story by describing the chicken, calling it a once-alive hunk of meat. Then at the end the boy, just before he dies, puts his hand over his chest and the wrist collapses like a chicken wing. But it is descriptive details of the dead boy and his son that drive the point home. His son: ...his milky face..., the German boy: ...the raw skin milky white.... Also, his son: ...his eyelashes touching both the underside of his eyebrow and the tops of his cheeks. And then the soldier: ...blinking lids with long lashes.... This is a good story. I did notice two little points that could be different. The lesser of the two is simply after the German boy is shot he falls on his face. Shortly thereafter it is clear he is lying on his back, and nowhere is there a mention of him being turned over. The other inconsistency is at the beginning. At the start we're told that his wife is sitting on their outdoor couch. After their son goes back to play and the narrator goes into the back yard his wife is sitting on a floral patterned cushion in a wrought iron chair. Nothing says she couldn't have changed her seat, but without an acknowledgement of that change, it looks like a mistake.

The second story featuring the military is the post-civil war piece, The Long Walk, by Raymond Chilensky. This is a more philosophical story than Chicken and speaks to current events more than that one as well. Unlike the narrator in Chicken, this man killed many and is untroubled by it. What troubles him is that it may have been all for nothing. And while he fears that the war has changed nothing for Caleb and James, he is nervous but proud of the changes it has made on him. I really liked the imagery here: Or would she see a man who, only months before, would casually kick the corpses of slain enemies off of the end of his bayonet? Another good touch was his comment that he faced some of the bravest fighting men in the world while fighting the Confederacy. It shows that although he hated the idea of slavery, he had respect for the men that fought for that idea. The irony of the situation is demonstrated in the confrontation on the streets of New Philadelphia. The narrator demonstrates his calm courage—and willingness to kill—that have been instilled in him by battle. Yet his friend—like a brother—has not changed at all. Fear still chains him. The narrator speculates that it will take many years for attitudes to change. The War was only the first step. We know now, of course, that while the fear and anti-Negro attitudes diminished slowly in the North, it would take over one hundred years for significant changes to be realized in the South, and then it took action by the federal government to enforce the changes in action. It is clear still, one hundred-fifty years after the war, that attitudes in the South have stubbornly resisted the change. Another good tale and I have no criticisms.

The last of the stories involving the military is The Thanksgiving Offensive by Richard Zwicker. This one does not involve fighting or killing. The actual push of the story is about the narrator's father and brother, the interaction between the two, and the consequences. I liked the narrator's description of himself in relation to the Thanksgiving dinner. It reminded me of me at that age. I was always the last one to leave the table. And the family gatherings then and at Christmas were always important. I have no complaint about the writing itself. But I do have a criticism of the history. The portrayed meal is in 1973, and the father wonders why Steve wants to "get your ass sent to Viet Nam." Also, Larry finds it insane that anyone would offer up his life to the Nixon war machine. When I first read this I was bothered by the time. I'm just the right age to have served in Viet Nam, but I had a student deferment. And, in case anybody wonders, my draft number was six higher than the highest they called when I was nineteen. The timeline did not match my (often faulty) memory. So I looked it up. In January of 1973 Nixon announced the end of offensive action against North Viet Nam and American involvement officially ended several months before Thanksgiving of that year. So Steve would not have been sent to Viet Nam. A writer who is presenting a fictional story in a historical context must be meticulous about the historical facts. In this case, simply dating the story in 1969 or 1970 would have been historically accurate.

Brian Kayser's The Hoarder has no military reference, but there is still a battle in progress. It is a battle against the theft of time. I thought the title "The Thief" would have been more appropriate. Michael steals time from everyone he encounters. However, despite the first sentence, I have to wonder if Jason isn't the real focus of the story. The narrator never takes us into Michael's thoughts. We are told what Jason thinks, what Jason sees, how Jason feels, and not just about Michael's hoarding. We know how Jason feels about his divorce and his focus on getting over it. He is trying to get past it, yet he nurtures his thoughts about it, and his ex. It seems that he wants to brood and Michael takes that brooding time away. I found the story depressing; perhaps that was its intent. I do think the author missed an opportunity. These words: ...his love handles hanging out gloriously in his tucked-in workout shirt... is really vivid. The word "gloriously" really gives it an impact. And he gives us a pretty good description of the bag boy, too. Mr. Kayser could have used more descriptive gems like that both for Michael and Jason. But this is a pretty tightly-told story, so I really have no complaints....except that it was depressing.

The Letter gives us a first person look at one side of a battle—a battle for independence. This is the same battle the majority of children fight at some time in their early teens, and one which most of them lose. Unlike The Hoarder, though, this story by Glendaliz Comacho is just sad. The fourteen-year-old girl is caught in the prison tower of Mami's love. Great metaphor there. There is no mention of another parent here; apparently Mami is raising her daughter by herself, which of course adds to the protectiveness the mother displays. She has no one else, and, worse, she has no one to help her if trouble finds her daughter. The mixing of the Spanish with the English is good, too. It is realistic. And as for Ms Giulio, I wanted to slap her for using "like" so much in her speech. This story is pretty short, and so is my commentary. It manages to make the reader sympathetic to the girl and want to find a solution for her. It seems real, more like an article excerpt than a fictional presentation. That's good.

The Tiger's Abyss by Brad Perry inescapably reminded me of James Thurber's The Unicorn in the Garden. But this story is quite a bit longer and not at all humorous. It is reflective. The comfortable life "you" have led is suddenly fantastically, interrupted. The use of second person to tell the story is unusual, though it is becoming more common. Some editors, at least in the speculative fiction markets, won't even consider such a story. But it is done well here. Upon first and second reading I had the impression that "you" was a woman. The frayed brown slippers hugging your feet, and the nostalgic look into Brian's bedroom all seem womanly. The memories of the piano lessons and cooking dinner to Heart and Soul and falling asleep on the couch to the sounds of scales all struck me as motherly. The complete and carefully crafted lack of any mention of a spouse helps keep "your" gender indefinite. I think the reflection that the frying pan was a wedding gift from twenty-five years ago, and wondering why "you" hadn't replaced it really nailed down, for me, the idea that the character is a woman. But the author is male, so, on the third reading, I specifically looked for something that might reveal gender. Sadly, there was one: Just the sliding door now separates man from beast. So, despite my earlier assumptions, based on my own subjectively received clues, it is a man. I would like this story better if that clue was missing, keeping the gender totally subjective to the reader. “Just the sliding door now separates you from this...” plus however he chose to describe it would have accomplished that. It seems certain that the author has viewed a full-grown tiger up close, in a zoo, probably, and the impression it made upon him he has shared with us. I, too, have been only a glass-width from a full-grown tiger, and noted the huge power the beast possesses. But I've never managed an eye-to-eye.Thank you, Brad, for sharing the tiger's abyss with us.

Besides Veterans' Day, November is home to Thanksgiving Day and we had a Thanksgiving story, a teen story, a hoarding story, a wild animal story, military stories, and not a turkey in the bunch. What presents will the Christmas month present?

copyright 2015

One and Done (October 30, 2015) Before I get started, I want to make a request/invitation. This is my tenth stories review and the comments have been disappointingly meager. I urge everyone out there, readers and especially the authors, to comment on my comments.

Ordinarily it is a good idea for an author to decline comment on reviews, especially negative ones from critics. But I'm not a critic, I'm a reviewer. The difference? A critic will beat you to death and enjoy it. A reviewer will beat you into a temporary coma and sincerely regret it afterwards.

As N.K. Wagner noted in a recent interview with Duotrope, Page and Spine tries to foster emerging writers. These reviews are a part of that. Every time (at least I hope it's every time) I offer a criticism, I supply or imply a remedy, much like I do in my review of Baptism below.

So please, feel free to offer me feedback. I can use it as much as anyone. Tell me if I hit the mark and my observations were helpful, or if you think I'm full of Shiitake mushrooms. And now, awaaaay we go...

ONE AND DONE

I like the title of Benjamin Thomas's story, We All Fall Down. After reading the story, the title inspires the mental picture of chess pieces falling down, but also people doing likewise. A fallen chess piece cannot rise by itself, and so very often people also need a hand to rise again. Is Rob offering his help to Carl with the big problem? Is he going to try to convince him, through the metaphor of chess, that he should not give up? Or is he simply going to teach his brother to play better and go out "on top?" My college creative writing teacher would have dubbed this a vignette rather than a real story. But I like it anyway. Although it seems there will be a second game, both Carl and the chess game were the first inspiration for the title to this month's review.

I was not impressed with Enduring the Waking World by Brenda Gornick. The writing itself was fine, but I found the story to be unoriginal. It combines a very old theme—a child living in the fantasy world of books—with a dreary stereotypical lower-class family life of fighting and uncaring parents. There was one good touch—sort of a subjective bonus. How many assumed that the broken glass was from a bottle of booze?

Please Feed Me, Mon Cherie by Sarah Etgen-Baker was ...interesting. I hated this story! It made me feel stupid and I seldom need any help with that. Who or what is the narrator? It/she/he wants to be fed. Fed what? More clothes? Attention? Or is this a little closet of horrors, where visitors disappear without a trace? No, I don't really think that, but the repeated mandate to "Feed me" did remind me of The Little Shop of Horrors. The first time through I thought perhaps the narrator was her reflection on a mirror on the inside of the closet door. Or perhaps just her imagination speaking to herself. But then Mlle Amelie addresses the narrator as "monsieur" after twice calling him(?) "mon ami." And then the narrator gives us, "Plus the metallic embellishments tell me that you’re unique, and I’ll be the talk of the town for sure!” So, the narrator will be seen by the town? The issue is further confused when the genteel commentary and use of French honorifics is suddenly discarded for modern American street lingo: “I know this is gonna sound harsh, but it’s just an old dress, right? Keep the memories, not the clothes.” I'm so confused. Sarah, please comment and tell me who or what is speaking to us. Perhaps the editors will give you a spot in The Reading Lamp for you to explain it in detail to everyone...unless I'm the only one who didn't get it. Or perhaps it's a ladies' thing? But it seems to me that the mademoiselle is the only real person in this story, and at the end she is clearly done (at least temporarily) with the entity that has been speaking to itself for our benefit.

Drinking Rooms by Kevin Richard White is the one story that does not support the review title. You can't win 'em all. I've almost been there. In college we had a group that would hit the bars regularly, and we'd have fun. We'd drink and sing and tell stories, but we were never the expansive boisterous and loud group that White portrays. And I was the only wannabe writer in the group, so I guess I wasn't really there. Not exactly. But I can certainly relate to the mood of this band of brothers. There are sixteen paragraphs in this work, and six of them start with "We drank." I got the theme. Then the conclusion deflects the attention from the drinking to the author's narration and the dreams, but his memories—nostalgic memories—are about the drinking. And the love. If he doesn't mention it, we probably won't realize it. But he loved those times and that band of brothers he drank with. That is why the nostalgia. Like We All Fall Down, this is not technically a story. There is no plot, no problem to solve, no character development, not even a specific setting. It is a scrap of memoir; as such, it works. As I was writing this I was reminded of the lyrics from the 1968 Mary Hopkins recording, "Those Were the Days," and so I looked up all the lyrics. I have to wonder if this fictional(?) journey into nostalgia was inspired by that song. This whole piece could be viewed as a prosaic interpretation of those lyrics. That's not a criticism. But those of you that have never heard that song, you should check out the lyrics, and the tune. Then a quick look-up on Wikipedia will reveal the interesting history of that recording.

Possessed of a Fierce Violence by Alexis A. Hunter is a story about a lady with some serious issues. But not so much as the men she encounters. This is a story that really pushed the title of this review to the forefront. She is one, and they are done. It says in the brief biographical note that Ms Hunter likes writing dark fiction. This is an excellent example. It is dark in all its details. This is a well-written story. I do have one quibble. The second encounter is only barely believable. She breaks his hand by slamming her thighs together? Maybe, if she catches the hand just right between the medial condyles of the femur (the knobby bones on the insides of the knees). But then she is able to dislocate or break his fingers without him doing anything? Doesn't he have another hand? I'm sorry; I'm totally against a man committing violence on a woman, but in a situation of self-defense, I would think a man would punch her in the head. On the other hand, the last episode is done very well. I can just see the tip of the ball point pen stabbing into his throat, leaving tell-tale marks of blue ink next to the wounds, and the same for the wounds on his hands. What young man would expect such an attack from an old woman?

The Baptism by M.J. Cleghorn doesn't really support the review title, but it doesn't necessarily contradict it either. Big Ed is one and Oscar is one, and at the end one of them is finished, as is a tradition of fifty years. There is little to criticize here, but I did find two little things, one with the writing and one with the story. The writing first: "The fleet had not returned and the fishermen’s wives began to gather at Zenia's— big Ed’s wife— house." This is really awkward wording. It would be much smoother to use two sentences for this information. One possibility: "...the fishermen's wives began to gather at Zenia's house. Zenia was Big Ed's wife and her house was the preferred gathering place at times like this." As far as the story is concerned, Big Ed has been living and experiencing weather there for over forty years. It seems barely credible that the wind and slippery conditions would surprise him. Falling and breaking his leg is an important story part, but the surprise factor is not only unnecessary, it subtracts from the genuineness of the story. The broken leg shows the stoic stubbornness of Big Ed and, by connection, the entire village population. His devotion to his friend, Oscar, is that important, and no one even considers trying to dissuade him from taking the baby to the baptism where Oscar, at least in spirit, can still fulfill his role as godfather.

A Misfortune of Obtuse Defiance by Soren James is a story of Forrest Gump with bad luck instead of good. As Forrest said, "Being a idiot is no box of chocolates." That's from the book. And Forrest wasn't a runner, either. He was a big hulking man—more like Lenny in "Of Mice and Men." Despite that, much of the movie was true to the book in tone and attitude if not in detail. This story represents what might have happened to Forrest under less fortunate circumstances. The people that possess average or above average intelligence can get along pretty well in society. They tend to gravitate to their level of competence and do all right. Those having acutely sub-normal intelligence are usually provided for by the state. Little is expected of them, professional educators and administrators do their best to find places for them where they can fit in and be productive. But that in-between group, like Forrest Gump, like the narrator here, they tend to be expected to do more and better than they actually can, and then inspire criticism and anger from others because those other "normal" people can't or won't understand that the person simply does not understand. The author has done an excellent job with the first person narration here. It allows us to see and sympathize with the thoughts and feelings of the nameless storyteller. That's a nice touch too. There are opportunities in the story for him to reveal his name, but he doesn't do that. This poor slow unfortunate doesn't really need a name. What would he do with one? So for the reader he is simply this stupid man of indeterminate age that is prone to accidents because of his failure to understand. That previous paragraph was written before I examined, for the third time, that last sentence. Then, my perception changed. This is a perfect example of how a single comma can alter the meaning of a sentence...and perhaps an entire story. That last sentence reads: "So stupid people give me money to go away." Now, consider if it was written like this: "So stupid, people give me money to go away." The second option actually fits the rest of the story. He continues to bemoan his stupidity. But that's not what the author wrote! He wrote it with no comma, meaning clearly that the people that give him money to go away are stupid. Suddenly he regards others as stupid, which undermines the sincerity of his self-evaluation. Were the deaths of his brother and father really accidents? Or is this story more like the testimony in Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart?" Is the witness self-deluded, or is he trying to deceive us? Or perhaps the lack of a comma at a critical place means nothing at all, and it means what it means to each reader, depending on their own perceptions.

So, with the exception of Drinking Rooms, all these October stories feature a person (or entity) that is very much alone, at least for a while, and an air of finality. Maybe that thought is a little spooky...perfect for the month of Halloween.

copyright 2015

Matters of Death...and Life (September 25, 2015) There's a lot of death in September's stories. Symbolic of the arrival of fall and all the dead leaves we can look forward to raking? Perhaps. Or maybe it just worked out that way.

Peter Wood authored "Castaways," September's first story. I'm envious. He's been published by magazines that have only given me rejections. The death theme starts with this story. Krebs and Hale come from a future that suffered a pandemic that wiped out most of humanity. I can't criticize the writing no matter how much I want to. The only issue I have with the story arises from my knowledge of the television series Gilligan's Island. But first I'll hand out compliments for the same reason. Wood has been clever with the names and characteristics of his characters. Jonas Hale is sort of the second fiddle in this time travel mission. Alan Hale was the actor that played The Skipper—Gilligan's captain, but the second fiddle in the comedy team. The skipper served mostly as a straight man for Gilligan's antics. He even adds to this little match-up by having Ginger Ale address him by asking, "What's your name, sailor?" A bit later he gets even more specific. "Hale patted his sizable gut." Alan Hale was stocky. Yes, Ginger Ale. In the series the glamorous woman wearing slinky dresses was Ginger Grant. Ginger introduces herself as "Tina." Tina Louise is the actress that played Ginger Grant. And to continue the cross-referencing, when Tina and Hale return to the bar after Paley has left, Tina tells Hale "you left your little buddy alone to talk to Paley." The Skipper frequently called Gilligan "Little Buddy." And to top off the nostalgic laughs, she makes it clear that in the other time lines Hale screwed up the approach to Haley in various ways—just like Gilligan would have done. And of course the man that runs their underground bunker in the future is called the Professor, who was one of the characters on the series. When I began writing this I was going to remark that any actor that played Gilligan could never get elected Senator. Gilligan was a submissive, polite, well-meaning screw-up, and not too bright. The character would be too attached to the actor to allow that actor to get elected to major office. However...if the series went twelve years and became serious, like a science fiction soap opera, the character had plenty of time to gradually change and acquire a stronger image. So, darn it, I can't even fix on that for a criticism. Wood is good.

Unusually, an author has two stories in the same month. Sarah Etgen-Baker contributes "The Butterfly Whisperer" on the eleventh and "Intangible Ingredients" on the twenty-fifth. The first story is short and sweet and has little room for review, although it is worth pointing out that when a person suffers from a stroke, millions of brain cells die, in keeping with September's theme. But there was this one thing: "the air—light and fresh—gently blew the long, crisp, white curtains to and fro." I really hate "to and fro." The last time I encountered that phrase was in elementary school. This would have been so much better if she had drawn an oblique reference to the butterflies, or to grace, in the description of the curtains' movements. "The long white curtains fluttered in the fresh breeze like delicate wings." Or "The light and fresh air blew gently through the open French doors, inspiring a graceful waving of the white curtains." Almost anything but "to and fro." "Intangible Ingredients" is very similar in tone but much more detailed. And there's nothing resembling "to and fro." The longer story gets the shorter review. There's nothing wrong with it. It feels like a memoir, but it is listed as a story so I can take issue with something I felt did not quite fit. Her brothers apparently tossed the recipe box because they could see little value in the dog-eared yellowed recipes. But there were more than recipes in there. There were photos and mementos. And hadn't they ever seen their sister cooking or baking with their mother and using those recipe cards? It seemed to me unlikely that they would have junked it without at least a phone call to see if she wanted it. Perhaps that didn't happen. Maybe the disappearance was due to some other mishap. It disappeared "just like my mother's memories did." What an excellently subtle way to suggest that her mother had suffered from dementia or maybe even Alzheimer's without allowing that issue more relevancy than is warranted in this story.

"Tell Them I'm Not Dead!" by Cherie W. Brackett puzzles me. Is this fiction, or memoir? The author uses her own name for one of the characters. That this appeared in The Reading Lamp rather than as a story reinforces the possibility that it is memoir. If so, I have nothing to criticize. In that case it is not fiction. The writing is fairly succinct, it shows the two settings very well and does well also with the characters' emotions. And I have no trouble believing the psychic connection to be factual. If it is fiction, though, it is disappointing. The psychic connection of Grady to his sister has no real significance. It does not save his life. Possibly his prayer was answered with a "Yes," by God, but all it did was worry Cherie and cause her to lose sleep and gain frustration trying to reach someone in the military. It would have been a better story if the connection had allowed his sister to get a message to someone and prevent Grady's premature assignment to the ranks of the dead. His buddies did die, though, so death is still the theme.

"If It's to Heal" by Brandann Hill-Mann continues the September theme of death...and life. I didn't like the way the story was put together at the beginning. It starts with Scott, which gives him some importance. I expected the story to be about Scott, since he got top billing. It would have been truer to the story if it had started with "Nicole woke up on Saturday, alone, groggy, sore. "The silence she'd expected. The beeping of the monitors were a given. The dull ache of her surgical site was annoying through the medication." Add something like "She was not surprised Scott was not there." Then continue with the first four paragraphs and pick it up from there. That would reduce Scott to a footnote, which he was. A small piece of her story, not the headline. I would suppose most readers knew immediately that Hee-Jin was the survivor of the person that had donated the kidney. Why else would she be there? I found myself wondering why Nicole didn't understand that almost at once. But I've never been under heavy sedation or pain killers for major surgery. Maybe those things do dull the mental faculties along with the physical ones.

"I Married a Freegan" by Joe Guderian is the best story of September. It doesn't have any death; it's why the title for this review included a mention of life. Although I'm not a fan of romance fiction, I'm not opposed to it either. This is actually a very formulaic story. Boy meets girl, boy marries girl, both families not thrilled, boy and girl persevere, a baby on the way. Romance publishers and editors insist on the Happy Ever After or at least the Happy For Now ending. This meets that criteria. But that is only a part of what makes this story good. Guderian's use of metaphor and similes is really good. Some of them are outstanding. "My heart melted like a Dali clock." What a great image! Later, we get "like having to appear at a command performance without knowing the words to the song." And then right after, " a beaded top cut so low it looked like she was skipping rope." There are more, but not too many. Some authors that have a talent (or skill?) for this will overdue it to the point that the story becomes almost unreadable. Not here. A few well-chosen word pictures go a long way and are appreciated more for their sparsity, and they infuse a real life into a story that might otherwise die on the vine.

Maybe I should have titled this with "life" coming before "death." In all the stories, people still live and triumph, whether the spectacular time-travel paradox of preventing a pandemic to the small personal triumph of baking without needing the recipe card. Life may overcome death in these September stories, but we're still going to have to rake leaves in October. I wonder what that month's stories will bring.

copyright 2015

Across the Pond, Or In It (August 28, 2015)

England is a pervading theme in this August's stories, especially early in the month. The first story allows the last three words of this review's title. After that we have a review of an Englishman's memoir; a story about looking at England 8,000 years in the past; another story of England, this one about seventy years in the past; and still another story set in England, this one more or less in the present.

I had trouble getting a handle on the main character in "Salt" by Lesley Bannatyne. Since she taught her ESL kids for thirty years she's got to be, realistically, fifty at least and probably older. Yet her friend Astrid, virtually the same age, comes across as someone in her thirties, and except for the references to the time spent teaching, and the one reference to wrinkles toward the end, Deb seems to be a woman in her late thirties or early forties. How many women over fifty would bare their breasts in public? The character would have been more solid if the author had allowed Deb to be realistically about thirty-eight or so. I got a definite Dorothy vibe near the end. "She closed her eyes and breathed in the salt. It was her bedrock, this salt, here, this Quincy Bay salt, from where she was born, and where all that she had earned, and built, and planted, and loved, was." This really compares in tone with Dorothy's observation just before she clicks her heels: "...if I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with!" The adult (ery) encounter with Hal is the catalyst that spurs Deb's introspection to discover the same thing Dorothy's adventure revealed to her. There's no place like home.

"Letters to Soldiers" by Jon Arthur Kitson and "My Solicitor" by Derek McMillan have two obvious similarities. Both stories take place in England, and both stories, written by men, feature a woman as the central character. From there, though, they differ in almost every respect. It could be argued that "Letters to Soldiers" isn't really a story. There is no plot, no conflict, no physical description of Cynthia at all. But at the end we see a story, a big one, packed into a very small package. The story is full of emotion without the use of any descriptions of emotion in voice or expression. During the Viet Nam War one of the protest slogans was, approximately, "In nature children bury their parents. War violates nature, causing parents to bury their children." This is a paraphrase of a quote by Herodotus. This story reminded me of that. Very well done.

"My Solicitor" is totally different. It is indeed a fully constructed story with a plot, a conflict, and a solution. I really can find nothing to criticize, try as I might. It is entertaining, clever, and well-written.

"Tight Pants" has an opposite similarity (like that oxymoron?) to the previous two stories. The story, written by a woman, takes place in the mind of a male character. Bria Burton does a good job of portraying a wimp. And it took the worst day of his life for him to realize he was a wimp. I'm not so sure he started out that way, but judging from his thoughts regarding his soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend, Natalie, he just can't stand conflict. It was probably his nature to begin with, and was then reinforced by parents, friends, co-workers, etc. He was like blood in the water to sharks. Everyone he met could sense his weakness and pounced upon it. Has he realized it before this mugging? Almost certainly, yet it's been so much easier to just go along. Nothing was important enough to rebel against and get stubborn. Fara saved his life twice. She saved him physically from possibly getting shot in the head, and then she gave him a shot—of inspiration—in his heart. His life can now be his. I wonder what Natalie thought of the new man? My only head-shake at this story was that he's not really dressed to go running with her. Running in skinny jeans has to be akin to dancing while wearing clown shoes or swimming in an overcoat. He better jog to the nearest clothing or sports store and get some shorts and tank tops. Oh, and running shoes would be good, too.

"Untethered" by Eric Erickson gives us a different look at the same problem as "Tight Pants." What, after all, is more tethering than skinny jeans? Art, however, is not the passive wimp from the other story. He was confident, free, and betrayed, though he didn't know it. In "Tight Pants" the narrator is given his freedom by a woman. Art's freedom, on the other hand, has been sucked away by the woman he has married. And he never realized it. She never shared his dream. It seems pretty clear they don't really communicate. He quit his job two weeks ago and she didn't even notice. She just wanted the house and the kids. Did he? We can't be sure, but he had 'em, wanted or not, because she did. Kate is practical. I get the impression that all through their twenty-seven years of marriage, except for that camping trip, she has kept him "grounded." That pressure of her hands on his shoulders and that matronly shake of her head are no strangers to him. And in his final attempt to be young again, to do what his heart tells him is right, Kate has squelched it with a gentle but unyielding practicality. That he hated that job makes no never-mind to her. His job assured the secure life she wanted. The saddest part of all is that on the camping trip so many years ago, she did the free and irresponsible thing while he slept. He's lived with a delusion his whole married life. At the end, there is only silence. The delusion is gone and he has nothing to fill that void. Another really good story that offers no opportunity for criticism. If this keeps up, I may have to return to creative writing for P&S.

But wait! There is one more story: "Looking Back" by Sarah Long. I took all the other stories in the chronological order of their appearance, but I skipped over this one. Now I'm going to look back on it because it invites the most discussion. The word "impressive" means it left an impression. In that respect, this was one of the two stories that I found impressive. "Letters to Soldiers" was the other. I'm not an astrophysicist, so I don't feel comfortable criticizing the science of the story. I liked the concept of looking back and seeing something totally unsupported by what we think we know. Alien visitors, and apparently not beneficent in their designs. The idea of the old woman looking right into the telescope and advising "hide" was a cool touch. But just before that and the rest after, problems developed. With the audience, sure, but also with the story. The last time we see Frederick, he is holding her hand, and that's before the images appear. Then he just disappears from the story like he was never there. No mention of him releasing her hand, stepping away, nothing. The narrator and Anna might as well have been there without him. The disturbance of the audience is well done, except that Frederick apparently had no reaction at all. But then suddenly two black-clad men show up, gas everybody except the mother and child because she has managed to hide. Second objection (her husband's disappearance was the first): “All subjects saw the footage,” I hear one man’s muffled reply. “We destroyed them on site.” No professional would say "destroy" when referring to people. "Terminate," or "neutralized" is far more likely. "Destroy" could apply to the footage, but footage is singular and the man said "them." Third objection: We are led to believe that this is the first time this has been done, so how can the agents be so prepared for the application of gas to eliminate the audience? Plus, the agent's words imply that this has been seen before. How? When? An extra hundred words or so early in the story could have given a hint or some kind of background that would explain this. Fourth objection: and I'll admit it is on the edge of justified. What happens to the mother and child does not have to be part of this story, so their jump out the window is a reasonable ending. But what is going to happen to this woman? Will they survive the jump? Almost certainly. But she's wearing a cocktail dress, which implies high heels. Landing from a second story window in high heels is going to produce a shattered ankle or worse. Maybe they are jumping onto bushes or some kind of landscaping that will offer a softer landing? Maybe she chose to wear flats because she broke a heel. These are all things that could have been mentioned casually early in the story with only a few words, and allow the reader to hold out hope for their escape. But, again, what happens after is not part of this tale, so these things are not necessary for the completeness of the story. But, dammit, I couldn't stop thinking about that landing!

One last bit of commentary. I want to review the review. "A Review of So, Anyway... by John Cleese" by Gael DeRoane, seemed contradictory to me. The reviewer approached it from a personal perspective, so I'm going to do likewise. Like him, I do not "get" English humor. "Benny Hill," the one time I watched it, had me looking for a barf bag in ten minutes. I was at someone else's house and they watched it because (God forgive them) they thought it was funny. I bailed out and went elsewhere to watch a pinochle game. That was twice as entertaining. I have never watched "Monty Python," primarily due to my experience with "Benny Hill." Because of those intentional avoidances, the references to Basil Fawlty were completely wasted on me. I almost never read memoirs anyway, since I usually find more truth in fiction. So, I thought his first four paragraphs (minus the Fawlty reference) were great, and after that it all went downhill. After reading this review I'm not sure if Mr. DeRoane wanted to dislike the book going in and was forced to change his mind by the quality of Cleese's writing, or if he liked it from the get-go and is just kidding the reader with his introduction. If the second, well done. But if the first, I wish he'd written the review without the build-down and just praised it to his satisfaction. The best thing about the review was the author's suggestion that there be a worldwide Ministry of Good Manners. Whether putting Mr. Cleese in charge would be a good idea I have no opinion, but he is absolutely correct about the need for such a ministry. The last two stories of the month betray the review's title, but I felt I could let the majority rule.

The end of August marks the unofficial end of summer. Kids return to school, most outside swimming pools will close a week or so later, and the days decline in hours while the nights get longer. This collection of stories served as a generally calm and collected way to usher out the heat and prepare for the cool.

copyright 2015

COOL STORIES FOR A HOT MONTH (July 31, 2015)

Good stories this month. That makes it harder to write a review column. But I suppose there's nothing wrong with compliments, and I can probably find something to be nit-picky about. A common theme for four of July's stories was jobs. Quite a variety of jobs, too: Emergency Medical Technician, Mailman, Insurance Adjuster (and former gambler), and Boulder Pusher/King. In three of those stories the job was abandoned due to the influence of another. Israel Bissell decides to take a temporary leave of absence to deliver something other than mail. The unnamed narrator abandons his job because his boss, who he finally admires at least a little, dies unexpectedly, probably from exertion. And King Sisyphus bails on his boulder-pushing after encountering Midas and the two make a deal. Midas also abandons his similar quest.

Israel Bissell Rides by Richard Zwicker is a period piece that does not read sentimentally, but has sentiment as its center theme. Sentiment comes in many forms. In this story the obvious one is Sam's wish to marry Anne, his sweetheart from long ago. There is also the implied sentimentality of Sam and Anne being both widowed. But Israel is also sentimental over a past accomplishment and Sam manages to scratch that itch just the right amount to inspire Israel to relive a bit of that accomplishment, in deed and purpose. The offered payment probably doesn't hurt either. A few times already this year I've been critical of authors' attempts to add non-standard dialect into their stories; the primary criticism has been that it's not consistent. This story is now added to that list, even though it's an extremely minor transgression: “It ain’t that warm in here,” John complained. “Don’t you think that fireplace of yourn could use another log, Sam?” That "yourn" simply isn't worth the effort; "yours" would do quite well, and there's no other lapse into that odd dialect anywhere in the story, not by John or the other two. If a writer wants to use non-standard dialect for a character, (s)he should make sure there's enough dialog by that character to make it worthwhile and authentic. I've mentioned before that Lee Allen Hill is excellent at using this device. The July 10th chapter of Coffee House Chatter provides a really super example of when and how to spice up a story with dialect. Easy readability is set aside for the authenticity of the unique dialog. If you're going to go for that, then go all the way. Immerse yourself in the dialect, hear it with your inner ear (and outer ear, too, if available), and really work on getting it right. Anything half-way just detracts from the quality of the writing. Except for that one tiny detraction, this story is well done.

Sometimes a story is about a character. In classic literature, Bartleby the Scrivener (Herman Melville) is one such literary portrait. Though in poetic form, Kipling's Gunga Din is another, and Ken Kesey's novel One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest is still another. All three of these have one thing in common. The story about the one man is told in first person by another man. Lucas Ahlsen's Solitaire in the Stairwell (good title!) shares those features. Another feature shared by these four stories is that the subject of the story dies. Solitaire shares even more similarities withBartleby. Both featured characters are involved with mundane and sedentary work, both die of natural causes, and their deaths are discovered by the narrators. And in both stories, the narrator speculates about the subject's earlier life in a sort of eulogizing soliloquy. Lucas Ahlsen's story is different from the other three in that his narrator walks away from the situation. Kesey's Chief Bromden runs away after suffocating the body of the lobotomized McMurphy, but he is looking forward to where he's going. Ahlsen's narrator is looking backward to where he's been. The author uses metaphor and simile well: "The white shrubs of his eyebrows," "his voice scraped my ears like sandpaper," and "The files resembled a waterfall of broken lives." He does not over use them, so they seem natural and do what they're supposed to do: add to the descriptive nature of the story without calling attention to themselves. Another good story written well.

A Day in the Life of Sisyphus by Peter Wood is a light-hearted take on a mythological undertaking. The punishment of Sisyphus is recounted correctly, while the punishment of Midas is the author's invention. The most chuckle-worthy part of the story is that the two kings unmistakably, to the reader, demonstrate hubris as they convince Zeus they have learned their lessons. But as the ending hints, Zeus may not be done with them after all. But at least the two kings are going to get a vacation. Try as I might, I can find nothing to criticize.

Life Flight by Sean Schulz is the one story in which the worker likes her job and wants to do it better. It is a coming of age story that spans about five minutes. Courage is at the forefront of the characters. The injured girl is frightened and suffering but bearing it with stoic determination. Rachel is scared to do what she must. She is beset by self-doubt and it would be so much easier to just back out and let Scout take care of it. People often need help to overcome their fear of failure and fear of the consequences that the failure may produce. Rachel does finally do what she must. But Scout demonstrates courage also, for the life of the girl is her responsibility. If Rachel makes a tragic error, it is Scout's career on the line. Yet she never flinches, for she recognizes that she has a duty to Rachel as well as the patient. This story did have a couple of flaws. The author tries to get a little too fancy. "The helicopter blades punished the sky with their deafening wind. The pilot, suave in his oversized helmet and black visor..." and, later,"Blades stormed above as she sliced between ribs and pressed the tube in." The descriptions are pretty good, but the helicopter blades and the pilot are only a barely peripheral part of the scene. In that second example especially, the picturesque reference to the blades distracts from the climactic action of Rachel meeting her challenge. A description of Rachel's expression or Scout's eyes, or even the breathing of the girl would make for better writing. These relatively unimportant (to the human drama) details actually detract from the primary focus of the tale. Had the story been a drama about hazards encountered in the flight, or the skill of the pilot, or even dangerous weather, these descriptive phrases would have added to the content. But in this story, that's not the case.

The other four stories are about dysfunctional relationships. The Shower by Rachel M. Barker is the only one of these relationship stories that offers hope for the future. I found it well written and engaging right up to the end. I found the last sentence incongruous and ill-fitting, like an angled two-by-four nailed carelessly onto the corner of an immaculate brand new garage. "She felt clean." Clean of what, or from what? For that sentence to really fit, the author needed to use the "clean" metaphor, or its opposite, earlier in the story. Observations of how her urge to drink left her feeling dirty, or how the Rat King seemed to disseminate its dirt onto her, or even the irony of attending a shower that would leave her feeling unwashed and in need of a real shower. I did like the play on words, how the shower made Amy feel clean, but we just needed previous references to that theme to make that last sentence fit into the design, to have a purpose.

The Passenger by Stuart Turnbull is a literary piece with several subtleties fitted in to the narrative. For starters, he mentions the radio hammering out Iggy Pop. One of Iggy Pop's songs was titled "The Passenger," so it gives at least a hint that that is the song on the radio. There's one thing wrong with that conclusion, though. "The local rock station is hammering out Iggy Pop and I bang the steering wheel in sympathy with the raw energy of a track older than I am." As we learn later, the narrator has been married for twenty-two years, which means he is, realistically, at least forty. "The Passenger," as of this year, is only thirty-eight years old. But Iggy was recording ten years before that, so perhaps it was a different song. I like the way the story is put together. The narrator's musings, full of metaphor and self-assurance contrast with the straight-forward complaints of the woman, and her words allow the reader to "hear" the sad anger in her voice and see the tears on her cheeks. Another subtlety is that he is driving a muscle car, with a V8 engine: "...that ridiculous mid-life crisis of a car." But the man she leaves with is driving a Prius—the exact opposite of a muscle car. And with that last sentence it is revealed that she is the passenger.

I found Birthday Boy by Edoardo Albert to be slightly disturbing. That's a compliment. I'm sure the story was intended to disturb the reader. It is well done, with the revelation of James' true state of being revealed very gradually, until the truth dawns on the reader just what is happening, and what has happened in the past. Chrissy is clearly delusional, yet she knows that she is. It is a delusion she holds dear and nurtures, yet it seems that it does not hamper her in her normal day-to-day life. Martin finds it uncomfortable, but tolerates it out of love for his wife. Besides, it's just one day.

A relationship can't get any more dysfunctional than the one shown us in The Ride by Jonpaul Taylor. The first paragraph actually makes the whole story. "I knew it was a bad idea, leaving Susanna alone at home all pregnant and whatnot while I’m out looking for some new tail. If she knew what I got myself into, she’d kill me." My first reaction was, "What an asshole!" The narrator gets no sympathy from the reader. Whatever he is getting, or going to get, he deserves it. In between the self-recriminations he alternates between certainty that he can talk his way out of his predicament and certainty that he is going to die. The author builds the tension and then gives us a little surprise and a little revelation. But it is so logical! Who would be more likely to marry a drug dealing dirt bag like this than a mob boss' daughter? At first I thought that Susanna should be harsher with her words, more stereotypical of the wounded and vengeful woman. On further readings I changed my mind. Her continued use of a soft voice and the endearments was an excellent touch.

As I noted at the beginning, July offered eight excellent stories. They were just right for relaxing when you're home from work and not yet ready to venture back into the heat of the afternoon.

copyright 2015

A MIXED BAG (June 26, 2015)

I'm going to do something a little different this month. June's first story, Just S'posen by Sandra Stoner Mitchell and the last story, The Forest by Shalee Reeve have so much in common that it makes sense to discuss them together. The similarities are obvious: Both stories feature a friendship that is tested by the trials of darkness, being lost, and physical hardship. Both stories feature male characters in situations that would generally be associated with male characters, yet both stories are written, and written well, by women. Also, the friends survive and after their trial they are put into the hands of the authorities. The primary difference is that in Mitchell's story the two best mates make it on their own by their own determination, and their friendship never wavers. Reeve's friends have a third person to worry about, and the plight of that third person serves as a wedge that separates the friends. Regarding that feature, I thought one real nice touch was James imagining Ash calling him names and mocking him, and how welcome that would be since it meant rescue. The biggest difference is the writing style. Shalee Reeve sprinkles metaphors and similes throughout her story: "...watching the sun rise in the branches of barren trees, setting their bows on fire with broken orange light." Also, "The space blanket that shielded Felix drooped like glittering moss," and "His lungs rattled like a wolf in a cage..." Good stuff, and appropriate for the story. Sandra Mitchell, on the other hand, uses none of those things. Descriptions are very straight-forward; they are blunt and practical: "Their hands were bleeding from the roughness on the rubble and sweat was dripping from their foreheads, stinging their eyes." And another example: "The room was small and had a hole in the high ceiling where the sun poured through. On the walls there were many little drawings of strange creatures. Most unusual for a church." This is appropriate for the story just as the use of those devices was appropriate for the other story. The characters and the story can dictate what kind of language the writer uses. Two English boys in London during WWII would have no room in their worlds for "flowery speech." Things are hard and even their play is hazardous. In The Forest, the characters' speech is plain and rough, so the literary devices add color. In Just S'posen those devices are unnecessary because of Jake's colorful dialect. Adding picturesque narration would have the author competing with her character for attention. I felt that Just S'posen was slightly superior because it seemed more natural. The predicament of the three men seemed contrived. James's insistence on extending their exploration while his brother was sick, and then all three of them losing track of the way back did not have the same feel of likelihood.

Albatross in Flames by Brian Anthony Thornton is a story of addiction. Hers is obvious, his less so. I do want to remark that I really like the title. It not only has a certain flare, but it is perfectly apropos to the story. Lucie is indeed an albatross hung around Mark's neck, and she is burning out. The flames will burn him as well. As I said, Lucie's addiction is obvious. She has taken her refuge in drugs as she tries to flee from imaginary enemies that have, we find out near the end, a basis in reality: "Far away from the hungry hands of foster fathers." That revelation is handled skillfully. Some people that have kicked the habit of smoking or drinking can be fine for years. They won't even feel a craving. But just let them smell that tobacco smoke or see a glass of whiskey, and the addiction comes roaring back, resistible if they're strong enough, but just barely. And they really must want to resist. Mark's addiction to Lucie works like that. He hasn't seen her in quite a while and apparently hasn't missed her. But she unexpectedly appears like a smoking cigarette beside a glass of amber set in front of him without warning, and he is lost. He has neither the strength nor the desire to offer more than a token resistance. There was romance there once, and desire. But what fuels his addiction is the connection to the hopes and dreams from years ago. Those too had been forgotten. But they come dancing back with Lucie's presence and they become real again and the hope is somehow rekindled in him by her presence. Like the recidivist drunk, the rational part of him knows that hope is only illusion. But the illusion is just pretty enough to cling to, as long as the substance of addiction is present. Mr. Thornton makes excellent use of metaphor: "She felt the air grow heavy as their breath, hot as cinders, coiled serpentine around her." I liked this one: "Lucie’s eyes glazed over as she fell backwards, arms outstretched, through a hole in her own mind." There was one little thing I must regard as a flaw. Twice we are told that Mark "was not a heartless man." I found the first occurrence incongruous but excusable. The second is almost offensive. With all the frenetic activity, the conflict, the danger, and the great metaphors, this statement is so mundane it intrudes a brief spray of extinguisher on the fire of the action. And it is an implied lie; it implies his motivation is something other than what it really is. If this is what Mark is telling himself as his excuse for his actions, that should be made clear; but the story would be improved by deleting those two totally unnecessary sentences.

I did not likeFixing by Peter Hully. That's an entirely subjective reaction. Fixing is a literary story and I don’t have a lot of patience with them, even though I've tried to write a couple. There's a good market for literary fiction if it's good enough. I've tried, but I can't seem to wrie, or enjoy, a story where the characters remain unchanged. Here's a comment about literary stories from a literary story: "They were like funerals and burials. A lot of fancy talk, mostly for the sake of saying something fancy, and maybe some emotion here and there. But in the end the main character may have had his position in the world altered a little, through the offices of others, but his condition hadn’t changed." The same story, though, follows that statement with this one: "...he did have to admit the writers did have a skill with words. And sometimes a unique perception popped through, like a lone iris in a dandelion field." Those quotes are from Thanks, Winstons, a story published in Page & Spine. Just as the first two stories discussed were stories about men or boys written by women, this story is about a woman written by a man. I did not like this nameless woman, though I felt that I could if I really got to know her. But can any man get to know her? Can she really know any man? I do appreciate irony, and this story does have that: "Without make up, there’s a delicate thinness to her features, which she sometimes thinks makes her look helpless, as if she’ll forever need other people and she’s waiting to be saved." That look is exactly how she is! She is waiting to be saved, and she will always need at least one other person to do the saving. But who? Her boyfriend is an obvious butthead, with no understanding, no empathy, and no real strength. She needs those things and I felt that she expected a boyfriend to provide those emotional necessities. But she does not know how to articulate her needs, so she drifts. I also discovered a similarity between this young woman and Lucie from Albatross in Flames. Both imagine things about others that are not true—they think of themselves as victims, yet they are victimized only by themselves. Both young women are very dependent and looking for someone to take care of them. But this one is much too timid to demand that care as Lucie does. She cannot even ask for it because she does not recognize it. And unless she summons the courage and the insight to somehow seek the fortification she needs she will be doomed to remain as she is at the end: herself, alone in the dark. I may not like the story, but I do like the writing.

Once a Lucky Manby Kenneth Sibbett reminded me of several non-specific stories I've read over the years. It has a Gothic "Poe-ish" feel to it. Again, I do like irony and this story is certainly that. It also reminded me of "the Lonesome Death of Jordy Verrill" by Stephen King. I've never read the story but I saw the movie version in the movie Creepshow. Just like Jordy, Herbert has discovered something potentially wealth-making, but the timidity sown by their lonesome existences dooms them. Herbert is terrified that he will be accused as an accessory of the crime, though there is no basis in reality for this. There is a connection between this story and Just S'posen. Herbert finds a treasure. So do Jake and Billy. But the boys have friendship going for them, and that friendship helps pull them through their trouble. They trust each other, which makes it easier to trust the authorities. Herbert has no friends. He has been content to be without one his whole life. But when a crisis appears in Herbert's life he is not equipped to deal with it on his own and he has no friend he can trust, so trusting the authorities—or anyone—is foreign to his experience and he gives in to despair. I had only one objection, and that was at the end. I realize that the premise was necessary to keep the dime undiscovered, but if there's a suicide, there's going to be an autopsy. The authorities will want to know if drugs, illness, or something posing a public menace might be at fault.

I have very little to write about Pixie Pomade by Martina Kranz. Since it was based on the English fairytale Fairy Ointment, I read that story. Ms Kranz has prettied it up, but the basic story is unchanged. She has made it a bit cheerier, "nobleized" the pixies, and modernized the language, but that's about it. I would have liked to see a greater departure from the original, to make this story a little more...original. June offered an interesting mixture of stories. Three took place in England, and only one of those in modern times. Two take place entirely at night, a third begins at night, and a fourth finishes in the darkness. There is quiet desperation and frenetic panic and two quiet deaths that were unnecessary. And although romance is referenced as something far away, in time or in space, there is no hint of romance in any of these stories...the first time this year that's the case.

I was told that I was pretty harsh last month, which I knew. None of the stories deserved that kind of treatment this month. They all deserved a measure of kindess.

copyright 2015

CRUMBS(5/20/16)I wrote my autobiography. My publisher sees a market niche where it could sell millions. As a sleep aid.

(8/28/15)When bosses make decisionsAnd each one seems still wrongerAnd we shake our heads and tryTo ask the reasons, their replyProbably is just a lie;Confusion just gets stronger.Ours is not to reason why,Ours is but to bitch and cry--Doomed to that until we die...And maybe even longer.